The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales and Novels, Vol. VII, by Maria Edgeworth
#9 in our series by Maria Edgeworth

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Tales and Novels, Vol. VII
       Patronage

Author: Maria Edgeworth

Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8937]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on August 27, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOL. VII ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed Proofreaders




TALES AND NOVELS

BY MARIA EDGEWORTH.

IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.

VOL. VII.

PATRONAGE.




PATRONAGE.

  "Above a patron--though I condescend
  Sometimes to call a minister my friend."




TO THE READER.


My daughter again applies to me for my paternal _imprimatur_; and I hope
that I am not swayed by partiality, when I give the sanction which she
requires.

To excite the rising generation to depend upon their own exertions for
success in life is surely a laudable endeavour; but, while the young mind
is cautioned against dependence on the patronage of the great, and of
office, it is encouraged to rely upon such friends as may be acquired by
personal merit, good manners, and good conduct.

RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.

_Edgeworthstown,
Oct. 6, 1813._



PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

The public has called for a third _impression_ of this book; it was,
therefore, the duty of the author to take advantage of the corrections
which have been communicated to her by private friends and public censors.
Whatever she has thought liable to just censure has in the present edition
been amended, as far as is consistent with the identity of the story. It is
remarkable that several incidents which have been objected to as impossible
or improbable were true. For instance, the medical case, in Chapter XIX.

A bishop was really saved from suffocation by a clergyman in his diocese
(no matter where or when), in the manner represented in Chapter X. The
bishop died long ago; and he never was an epicure. A considerable estate
was about seventy years ago regained, as described in Chapter XLII., by the
discovery of a sixpence under the seal of a deed, which had been coined
later than the date of the deed. Whether it be advantageous or prudent
to introduce such singular facts in a fictitious history is a separate
consideration, which might lead to a discussion too long for the present
occasion.

On some other points of more importance to the writer, it is necessary here
to add a few words. It has been supposed that some parts of PATRONAGE were
not written by Miss Edgeworth. This is not fact: the whole of these volumes
were written by her, the opinions they contain are her own, and she is
answerable for all the faults which may be found in them. Of ignorance
of law, and medicine, and of diplomacy, she pleads guilty; and of making
any vain or absurd pretensions to legal or medical learning, she hopes,
by candid judges, to be acquitted. If in the letters and history of her
lawyer and physician she has sometimes introduced technical phrases, it
was done merely to give, as far as she could, the colour of reality to
her fictitious personages. To fulfil the main purpose of her story it
was essential only to show how some lawyers and physicians may be pushed
forward for a time, without much knowledge either of law or medicine; or
how, on the contrary, others may, independently of patronage, advance
themselves permanently by their own merit. If this principal object of the
fiction be accomplished, the author's ignorance on professional subjects is
of little consequence to the moral or interest of the tale.

As to the charge of having drawn satirical portraits, she has already
disclaimed all personality, and all intention of satirizing any profession;
and she is grieved to find it necessary to repel such a charge. The author
of a slight work of fiction may, however, be consoled for any unjust
imputation of personal satire, by reflecting, that even the grave and
impartial historian cannot always escape similar suspicion. Tacitus says
that "there must always be men, who, from congenial manners, and sympathy
in vice, will think the fidelity of history a satire on themselves; and
even the praise due to virtue is sure to give umbrage."

_August 1, 1815._




PATRONAGE.




CHAPTER I.


"How the wind is rising!" said Rosamond.--"God help the poor people at sea
to-night!"

Her brother Godfrey smiled.--"One would think," said he, "that she had an
argosy of lovers at sea, uninsured."

"You gentlemen," replied Rosamond, "imagine that ladies are always thinking
of lovers."

"Not _always_," said Godfrey; "only when they show themselves particularly
disposed to humanity."

"My humanity, on the present occasion, cannot even be suspected," said
Rosamond; "for you know, alas! that I have no lover at sea or land."

"But a shipwreck might bless the lucky shore with some rich waif," said
Godfrey.

"Waifs and strays belong to the lady of the manor," said Rosamond; "and I
have no claim to them."

"My mother would, I dare say, make over her right to you," said Godfrey.

"But that would do me no good," said Rosamond; "for here is Caroline, with
superior claims of every sort, and with that most undisputed of all the
rights of woman--beauty."

"True: but Caroline would never accept of stray hearts," said Godfrey. "See
how her lip curls with pride at the bare imagination!"

"Pride never curled Caroline's lip," cried Rosamond: "besides, pride is
very becoming to a woman. No woman can be good for much without it, can
she, mother?"

"Before you fly off, Rosamond, to my mother as to an ally, whom you are
sure I cannot resist," said Godfrey, "settle first whether you mean to
defend Caroline upon the ground of her having or not having pride."

A fresh gust of wind rose at this moment, and Rosamond listened to it
anxiously.

"Seriously, Godfrey," said she, "do you remember the ship-wrecks last
winter?"

As she spoke, Rosamond went to one of the windows, and opened the shutter.
Her sister Caroline followed, and they looked out in silence.

"I see a light to the left of the beacon," said Caroline.--"I never saw a
light there before--What can it mean?"

"Only some fishermen," said Godfrey.

"But, brother, it is quite a storm," persisted Rosamond.

"Only equinoctial gales, my dear."

"Only equinoctial gales! But to drowning people it would be no comfort that
they were shipwrecked only by equinoctial gales. There! there! what do you
think of that blast?" cried Rosamond; "is not there some danger now?"

"Godfrey will not allow it," said Mrs. Percy: "he is a soldier, and it is
his trade not to know fear."

"Show him a _certain_ danger," cried Mr. Percy, looking up from a letter
he was writing,--"show him a _certain_ danger, and he will feel fear as
much as the greatest coward of you all. Ha! upon my word, it is an _ugly_
night," continued he, going to the window.

"Oh, my dear father!" cried Rosamond, "did you see that light--out at
sea?--There! there!--to the left."

"To the east--I see it."

"Hark! did you hear?"

"Minute guns!" said Caroline.

There was a dead silence instantly.--Every body listened.--Guns were heard
again.--The signal of some vessel in distress. The sound seemed near the
shore.--Mr. Percy and Godfrey hastened immediately to the coast.--Their
servants and some people from the neighbouring village, whom they summoned,
quickly followed. They found that a vessel had struck upon a rock, and from
the redoubled signals it appeared that the danger must be imminent.

The boatmen, who were just wakened, were surly, and swore that they would
not stir; that whoever she was, she might weather out the night, for that,
till daybreak, they couldn't get alongside of her. Godfrey instantly jumped
into a boat, declaring he would go out directly at all hazards.--Mr. Percy
with as much intrepidity, but, as became his age, with more prudence,
provided whatever assistance was necessary from the villagers, who declared
they would go any where with him; the boatmen, then ashamed, or afraid of
losing the offered reward, pushed aside the _land lubbers_, and were ready
to put out to sea.

Out they rowed--and they were soon so near the vessel, that they could hear
the cries and voices of the crew. The boats hailed her, and she answered
that she was Dutch, homeward bound--had mistaken the lights upon the
coast--had struck on a rock--was filling with water--and must go down in
half an hour.

The moment the boats came alongside of her, the crew crowded into them so
fast, and with such disorder and precipitation, that they were in great
danger of being overset, which, Mr. Percy seeing, called out in a loud and
commanding voice to stop several who were in the act of coming down the
ship's side, and promised to return for them if they would wait. But just
as he gave the order for his boatmen to _push off_, a French voice called
out "Monsieur!--Monsieur l'Anglois!--one moment."

Mr. Percy looked back and saw, as the moon shone full upon the wreck, a
figure standing at the poop, leaning over with out-stretched arms.

"I am Monsieur de Tourville, monsieur--a charg d'affaires--with papers of
the greatest importance--despatches."

"I will return for you, sir--it is impossible for me to take you now--our
boat is loaded as much as it can bear," cried Mr. Percy; and he repeated
his order to the boatmen to _push off_.

Whilst Godfrey and Mr. Percy were trimming the boat, M. de Tourville made
an effort to jump into it.

"Oh! don't do it, sir!" cried a woman with a child in her arms; "the
gentleman will come back for us: for God's sake, don't jump into it!"

"Don't attempt it, sir," cried Mr. Percy, looking up, "or you'll sink us
all."

M. de Tourville threw down the poor woman who tried to stop him, and he
leaped from the side of the ship. At the same moment Mr. Percy, seizing
an oar, pushed the boat off, and saved it from being overset, as it must
have been if M. de Tourville had scrambled into it. He fell into the
water. Mr. Percy, without waiting to see the event, went off as fast as
possible, justly considering that the lives of the number he had under his
protection, including his son's and his own, were not to be sacrificed for
one man, whatever his name or office might be, especially when that man had
persisted against all warning in his rash selfishness.

At imminent danger to themselves, Mr. Percy and Godfrey, after landing
those in the boat, returned once more to the wreck; and though they both
declared that their consciences would be at ease even if they found that M.
de Tourville was drowned, yet it was evident that they rejoiced to see him
safe on board. This time the boat held him, and all the rest of his fellow
sufferers; and Mr. Percy and his son had the satisfaction of bringing every
soul safely to shore.--M. de Tourville, as soon as he found himself on
terra firma, joined with all around him in warm thanks to Mr. Percy and
his son, by whom their lives had been saved.--Godfrey undertook to find
lodgings for some of the passengers and for the ship's crew in the village,
and Mr. Percy invited the captain, M. de Tourville, and the rest of
the passengers, to Percy-hall, where Mrs. Percy and her daughters had
prepared every thing for their hospitable reception. When they had warmed,
dried, and refreshed themselves, they were left to enjoy what they wanted
most--repose. The Percy family, nearly as much fatigued as their guests,
were also glad to rest--all but Rosamond, who was wide awake, and so much
excited by what had happened, that she continued talking to her sister,
who slept in the same room with her, of every circumstance, and filling
her imagination with all that might come to pass from the adventures of
the night, whilst Caroline, too sleepy to be able to answer judiciously,
or even plausibly, said, "Yes," "No," and "Very true," in the wrong place;
and at length, incapable of uttering even a monosyllable, was reduced to
inarticulate sounds in sign of attention. These grew fainter and fainter,
and after long intervals absolutely failing, Rosamond with some surprise
and indignation, exclaimed, "I do believe, Caroline, you are asleep!" And,
in despair, Rosamond, for want of an auditor, was compelled to compose
herself to rest.

In the course of a few hours the storm abated, and in the morning, when the
family and their shipwrecked guests assembled at breakfast, all was calm
and serene. Much to Rosamond's dissatisfaction, M. de Tourville did not
make his appearance. Of the other strangers she had seen only a glimpse the
preceding night, and had not settled her curiosity concerning what sort of
beings they were. On a clear view by daylight of the personages who now sat
at the breakfast-table, there did not appear much to interest her romantic
imagination, or to excite her benevolent sympathy. They had the appearance
of careful money-making men, thick, square-built Dutch merchants, who said
little and eat much--butter especially. With one accord, as soon as they
had breakfasted, they rose, and begged permission to go down to the wreck
to look after their property. Mr. Percy and Godfrey offered immediately to
accompany them to the coast.

Mr. Percy had taken the precaution to set guards to watch all night, from
the time he left the vessel, that no depredations might be committed.
They found that some of the cargo had been damaged by the sea-water, but
excepting this loss there was no other of any consequence; the best part of
the goods was perfectly safe. As it was found that it would take some time
to repair the wreck, the Prussian and Hamburgh passengers determined to
go on board a vessel which was to sail from a neighbouring port with the
first fair wind. They came, previously to their departure, to thank the
Percy family, and to assure them that their hospitality would never he
forgotten.--Mr. Percy pressed them to stay at Percy-hall till the vessel
should sail, and till the captain should send notice of the first change
of wind.--This offer, however, was declined, and the Dutch merchants,
with due acknowledgments, said, by their speaking partner, that "they
considered it safest and best to go with the goods, and so wished Mr. Percy
a good morning, and that he might prosper in all his dealings; and, sir,"
concluded he, "in any of the changes of fortune, which happen to men by
land as well as by sea, please to remember the names of Grinderweld,
Groensvelt, and Slidderchild of Amsterdam, or our correspondents, Panton
and Co., London."

So having said, they walked away, keeping an eye upon the goods.

When Mr. Percy returned home it was near dinner-time, yet M. de Tourville
had not made his appearance. He was all this while indulging in a
comfortable sleep. He had no goods on board the wreck except his clothes,
and as these were in certain trunks and portmanteaus in which Comtois, his
valet, had a joint concern, M. de Tourville securely trusted that they
would be obtained without his taking any trouble.

Comtois and the trunks again appeared, and a few minutes before dinner M.
de Tourville made his entrance into the drawing-room, no longer in the
plight of a shipwrecked mariner, but in gallant trim, wafting gales of
momentary bliss as he went round the room paying his compliments to the
ladies, bowing, smiling, apologizing,--the very pink of courtesy!--The
gentlemen of the family, who had seen him the preceding night in his
frightened, angry, drenched, and miserable state, could scarcely believe
him to be the same person.

A Frenchman, it will be allowed, can contrive to say more, and to tell
more of his private history in a given time, than could be accomplished by
a person of any other nation. In the few minutes before dinner he found
means to inform the company, that he was private secretary and favourite
of the minister of a certain German court. To account for his having taken
his passage in a Dutch merchant vessel, and for his appearing without
a suitable suite, he whispered that he had been instructed to preserve
a strict incognito, from which, indeed, nothing but the horrors of the
preceding night could have drawn him.

Dinner was served, and at dinner M. de Tourville was seen, according to
the polished forms of society, humbling himself in all the hypocrisy of
politeness; with ascetic good-breeding, preferring every creature's ease
and convenience to his own, practising a continual system of self-denial,
such as almost implied a total annihilation of self-interest and self-love.
All this was strikingly contrasted with the selfishness which he had
recently betrayed, when he was in personal danger. Yet the influence of
polite manners prevailed so far as to make his former conduct be forgotten
by most of the family.

After dinner, when the ladies retired, in the female privy council held
to discuss the merits of the absent gentlemen, Rosamond spoke first, and
during the course of five minutes pronounced as many contradictory opinions
of M. de Tourville, as could well be enunciated in the same space of
time.--At last she paused, and her mother smiled.

"I understand your smile, mother," said Rosamond; "but the reason I appear
a _little_ to contradict myself sometimes in my judgment of character is,
because I speak my thoughts just as they rise in my mind, while persons
who have a character for judgment to support always keep the changes of
their opinion snug to themselves, never showing the items of the account
on either side, and let you see nothing but their balance.--This is very
grand, and, if their balance be right, very glorious.--But ignominious
as my mode of proceeding may seem, exposing me to the rebukes, derision,
uplifted hands and eyes of my auditors, yet exactly because I am checked at
every little mistake I make in my accounts, the chance is in my favour that
my totals should at last be right, and my balance perfectly accurate."

"Very true, my dear: as long as you choose for your auditors only your
friends, you are wise; but you sometimes lay your accounts open to
strangers; and as they see only your errors, without ever coming to your
conclusion, they form no favourable opinion of your accuracy."

"I don't mind what strangers think of me--much," said Rosamond.--"At least
you will allow, mamma, that I have reason to be satisfied, if only those
who do not know me should form an unfavourable opinion of my judgment--and,
after all, ma'am, of the two classes of people, those who 'never said a
foolish thing, and never did a wise one,' and those who never did a foolish
thing, and never said a wise one, would not you rather that I should belong
to the latter class?"

"Certainly, if I were reduced to the cruel alternative: but is there an
unavoidable necessity for your belonging to either class?"

"I will consider of it, ma'am," said Rosamond: "in the meantime, Caroline,
you will allow that M. de Tourville is very agreeable?"

"Agreeable!" repeated Caroline; "such a selfish being? Have you forgotten
his attempting to jump into the boat, at the hazard of oversetting it,
and of drowning my father and Godfrey, who went out to save him--and when
my father warned him--and promised to return for him--selfish, cowardly
creature!"

"Oh! poor man, he was so frightened, that he did not know what he was
doing--he was not himself."

"You mean he was himself," said Caroline.

"You are very ungrateful, Caroline," cried Rosamond; "for I am sure M.
de Tourville admires you extremely--yes, in spite of that provoking,
incredulous smile, I say he does admire you exceedingly."

"And if he did," replied Caroline, "that would make no difference in my
opinion of him."

"I doubt _that_," said Rosamond: "I know a person's admiring me would make
a great difference in my opinion of his taste and judgment--and how much
more if he had sense enough to admire you!"

Rosamond paused, and stood for some minutes silent in reverie.

"It will never do, my dear," said Mrs. Percy, looking up at her; "trust me
it will never do; turn him which way you will in your imagination, you will
never make a hero of him--nor yet a brother-in-law."

"My dear mother, how could you guess what I was thinking of?" said
Rosamond, colouring a little, and laughing; "but I assure you--now let me
explain to you, ma'am, in one word, what I think of M. de Tourville."

"Hush! my dear, he is here."

The gentlemen came into the room to tea.--M. de Tourville walked to the
table at which Mrs. Percy was sitting; and, after various compliments on
the beauty of the views from the windows, on the richness of the foliage
in the park, and the superiority of English verdure, he next turned to
look at the pictures in the saloon, distinguished a portrait by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, then passing to a table on which lay several books--"Is it
permitted?" said he, taking up one of them--the Life of Lord Nelson.

M. de Tourville did not miss the opportunity of paying a just and what to
English ears he knew must be a delightful, tribute of praise to our naval
hero. Then opening several other books, he made a rash attempt to pronounce
in English their titles, and with the happy facility of a Frenchman,
he touched upon various subjects, dwelt upon none, but found means on
all to say something to raise himself and his country in the opinion of
the company, and at the same time to make all his auditors pleased with
themselves. Presently, taking a seat between Rosamond and Caroline, he
applied himself to draw out their talents for conversation. Nor did he
labour in vain. They did not shut themselves up in stupid and provoking
silence, nor did they make any ostentatious display of their knowledge
or abilities.--M. de Tourville, as Rosamond had justly observed, seemed
to be particularly struck with Miss Caroline Percy.--She was beautiful,
and of an uncommon style of beauty. Ingenuous, unaffected, and with
all the simplicity of youth, there was a certain dignity and graceful
self-possession in her manner, which gave the idea of a superior character.
She had, perhaps, less of what the French call _esprit_ than M. de
Tourville had been accustomed to meet with in young persons on the
continent, but he was the more surprised by the strength and justness of
thought which appeared in her plain replies to the _finesse_ of some of his
questions.

The morning of the second day that he was at Percy-hall, M. de Tourville
was admiring the Miss Percys' drawings, especially some miniatures of
Caroline's, and he produced his snuff-box, to show Mr. Percy a beautiful
miniature on its lid.

It was exquisitely painted. M. de Tourville offered it to Caroline to copy,
and Mrs. Percy urged her to make the attempt.

"It is the celebrated Euphrosyne," said he, "who from the stage was very
near mounting a throne."

M. de Tourville left the miniature in the hands of the ladies to be
admired, and, addressing himself to Mr. Percy, began to tell with much
mystery the story of Euphrosyne. She was an actress of whom the prince,
heir apparent at the _German court_ where he resided, had become violently
enamoured. One of the prince's young confidants had assisted his royal
highness in carrying on a secret correspondence with Euphrosyne, which
she managed so artfully that the prince was on the point of giving her
a written promise of marriage, when the intrigue was discovered, and
prevented from proceeding farther, by a certain Count Albert Altenberg,
a young nobleman who had till that moment been one of the prince's
favourites, but who by thus opposing his passion lost entirely his prince's
favour. The story was a common story of an intrigue, such as happens every
day in every country where there is a young prince; but there was something
uncommon in the conduct of Count Altenberg. Mr. Percy expressed his
admiration of it; but M. de Tourville, though he acknowledged, as in
morality bound, that the count's conduct had been admirable, just what it
ought to be upon this occasion, yet spoke of him altogether as _une tte
exalte_, a young man of a romantic Quixotic enthusiasm, to which he had
sacrificed the interests of his family, and his own hopes of advancement
at court. In support of this opinion, M. de Tourville related several
anecdotes, and on each of these anecdotes Mr. Percy and M. de Tourville
differed in opinion. All that was produced to prove that the young
count had no judgment or discretion appeared to Mr. Percy proofs of his
independence of character and greatness of soul. Mr. Percy repeated the
anecdotes to Mrs. Percy and his daughters; and M. de Tourville, as soon
as he saw that the ladies, and especially Caroline, differed from him,
immediately endeavoured to slide round to their opinion, and assured
Caroline, with many asseverations, and with his hand upon his heart, that
he had merely been speaking of the light in which these things appeared to
the generality of men of the world; that for his own particular feelings
they were all in favour of the frankness and generosity of character
evinced by these imprudences--he only lamented that certain qualities
should expose their possessor to the censure and ridicule of those who were
like half the world, incapable of being moved by any motive but interest,
and unable to reach to the idea of the moral sublime.

The more M. de Tourville said upon the subject, and the more gesture and
emphasis he used to impress the belief in his truth, the less Caroline
believed him, and the more dislike and contempt she felt for the duplicity
and pitiful meanness of a character, which was always endeavouring to
seem, instead of to be.--He understood and felt the expression of her
countenance, and mortified by that dignified silence, which said more than
words could express, he turned away, and never afterwards addressed to her
any of his _confidential_ conversation.

From this moment Rosamond's opinion of M. de Tourville changed. She
gave him up altogether, and denied, or at least gave him grudgingly,
that praise, which he eminently deserved for agreeable manners and
conversational talents. Not a foible of his now escaped her quick
observation and her lively perception of ridicule.

Whether from accident, or from some suspicion that he had lost ground with
the ladies, M. de Tourville the next day directed the principal part of
his conversation to the gentlemen of the family: comforting himself with
the importance of his political and official character, he talked grandly
of politics and diplomacy. Rosamond, who listened with an air of arch
attention, from time to time, with a tone of ironical simplicity, asked
explanations on certain points relative to the diplomatic code of morality,
and professed herself much edified and enlightened by the answers she
received.

She wished, as she told Caroline, that some one would write Advice to
Diplomatists, in the manner of Swift's advice to Servants; and she observed
that M. de Tourville, charg d'affaires, &c., might supply anecdotes
illustrative, and might embellish the work with a portrait of a finished
diplomatist. Unfortunately for the public, on the third morning of the
diplomatist's visit, a circumstance occurred, which prevented the farther
development of his character, stopped his flow of anecdote, and snatched
him from the company of his hospitable hosts. In looking over his papers,
in order to show Mr. Percy a complimentary letter from some crowned head,
M. de Tourville discovered that an important packet of papers belonging
to his despatches was missing. He had in the moment of danger and terror
stuffed all his despatches into his great-coat pocket; in getting out of
the boat he had given his coat to Comtois to carry, and, strange to tell,
this charg d'affaires had taken it upon trust, from the assertion of his
valet, that all his papers were safe. He once, indeed, had looked them
over, but so carelessly that he never had missed the packet. His dismay was
great when he discovered his loss. He repeated at least a thousand times
that he was an undone man, unless the packet could be found.--Search was
made for it, in the boat, on the shore, in every probable and improbable
place--but all in vain; and in the midst of the search a messenger came to
announce that the wind was fair, that the ship would sail in one hour, and
that the captain could wait for no man. M. de Tourville was obliged to take
his departure without this precious packet.

Mrs. Percy was the only person in the family who had the humanity to pity
him. He was too little of a soldier for Godfrey's taste, too much of a
courtier for Mr. Percy, too frivolous for Caroline, and too little romantic
for Rosamond.

"So," said Rosamond, "here was a fine beginning of a romance with a
shipwreck, that ends only in five square merchants, who do not lose even
a guilder of their property, and a diplomatist, with whom we are sure of
nothing but that he has lost a bundle of papers for which nobody cares!"

In a few days the remembrance of the whole adventure began to fade from
her fancy. M. de Tourville, and his snuff-box, and his essences, and his
flattery, and his diplomacy, and his lost packet, and all the circumstances
of the shipwreck, would have appeared as a dream, if they had not been
maintained in the rank of realities by the daily sight of the wreck, and by
the actual presence of the Dutch sailors, who were repairing the vessel.




CHAPTER II.


A few days after the departure of M. de Tourville, Commissioner Falconer, a
friend, or at least a relation of Mr. Percy's, came to pay him a visit. As
the commissioner looked out of the window and observed the Dutch carpenter,
who was passing by with tools under his arm, he began to talk of the late
shipwreck. Mr. Falconer said he had heard much of the successful exertions
and hospitality of the Percy family on that occasion--regretted that he had
himself been called to town just at that time--asked many questions about
the passengers on board the vessel, and when M. de Tourville was described
to him, deplored that Mr. Percy had never thought of trying to detain this
foreigner a few days longer.

For, argued the commissioner, though M. de Tourville might not be an
accredited charg d'affaires, yet, since he was a person in some degree in
an official capacity, and intrusted with secret negotiations, government
might have wished to know something about him. "And at all events," added
the commissioner, with a shrewd smile, "it would have been a fine way of
paying our court to a certain great man."

"So, commissioner, you still put your trust in great men?" said Mr. Percy.

"Not in all great men, but in some," replied the commissioner; "for
instance, in your old friend, Lord Oldborough, who, I'm happy to inform
you, is just come into our neighbourhood to Clermont-park, of which he
has at last completed the purchase, and has sent down his plate and
pictures.--Who knows but he may make Clermont-park his summer residence,
instead of his place in Essex? and if he should, there's no saying of what
advantage it might be, for I have it from the very best authority, that
his lordship's influence in _a certain quarter_ is greater than ever. Of
course, Mr. Percy, you will wait upon Lord Oldborough, when he comes to
this part of the country?"

"No, I believe not," said Mr. Percy: "I have no connexion with him now."

"But you were so intimate with him abroad," expostulated Mr. Falconer.

"It is five-and-twenty years since I knew him abroad," said Mr. Percy; "and
from all I have heard, he is an altered man. When I was intimate with Lord
Oldborough, he was a generous, open-hearted youth: he has since become a
politician, and I fear he has sold himself for a riband to the demon of
ambition."

"No matter to whom he has sold himself, or for what," replied the
commissioner; "that is his affair, not ours. We must not be too nice. He
is well disposed towards you; and, my dear sir, I should take it as a very
particular favour if you would introduce me to his lordship."

"With great pleasure," said Mr. Percy, "the very first opportunity."

"We must make opportunities--not wait for them," said the commissioner,
smiling. "Let me entreat that you will pay your respects to his lordship as
soon as he comes into the country. It really is but civil--and take me in
your hand."

"With all my heart," said Mr. Percy; "but mine shall only be a visit of
civility."

Well satisfied with having obtained this promise, Commissioner Falconer
departed.

Besides his general desire to be acquainted with the great, the
commissioner had particular reasons for wishing to be introduced at this
time to Lord Oldborough, and he had a peculiar cause for being curious
about M. de Tourville.--Mr. Falconer was in possession of the packet which
that diplomatist had lost. It had been found by one of the commissioner's
sons, Mr. John Falconer; or rather by Mr. John Falconer's dog, Neptune, who
brought it to his master when he was bathing in the sea the day after the
shipwreck. It had been thrown by the tide among some sea-weed, where it
was entangled, and where it lay hid till it was discovered by the dog. Mr.
John Falconer had carried it home, and boasting of his dog's sagacity, had
produced it rather as a proof of the capital manner in which he had taught
Neptune to fetch and carry, than from any idea or care for the value of the
packet; John Falconer being one of those men who care for very little in
this world,

  "Whilst they have their dog and their gun."

Not so the commissioner, who immediately began to examine the papers
with serious curiosity, to discover whether they could by any means be
productive of advantage to him or his family. The sea-water had injured
only the outer pages; but though the inner were not in the least damaged,
it was difficult to make out their contents, for they were written
in cipher. Commissioner Falconer, however, was skilled in the art of
deciphering, and possessed all the ingenuity and patience necessary for
the business. The title, superscription, and signature of the paper were
obliterated, so that he could not guess from whom they came, or to whom
they were addressed; he perceived that they were political; but of what
degree of importance they might be he could not decide, till he heard of
M. de Tourville the diplomatist, and of his distress at the loss of this
packet. The commissioner then resolved to devote the evening, ensuing
day, and night, if requisite, to the business, that he might have it in
readiness to carry with him when he went to pay his respects to Lord
Oldborough. Foreseeing that something might be made of this intercepted
despatch, and fearing that if he mentioned it to Mr. Percy, that gentleman
might object to opening the papers, Mr. Falconer left Percy-hall without
giving the most remote hint of the treasure which he possessed, or of the
use that he intended to make of his discovery.

Early in the ensuing week Mr. Percy went to pay his visit of civility, and
Mr. Falconer his visit of policy, to Lord Oldborough. His lordship was so
much altered, that it was with difficulty Mr. Percy recollected in him any
traces of the same person. The Lord Oldborough he had formerly known was
gay, gallant, and rather dissipated; of a frank, joyous air and manner. The
Lord Oldborough whom he now saw was a serious, reserved-looking personage,
with a face in which the lines of thought and care were deeply marked;
large eyebrows, vigilant eyes, with an expression of ability and decision
in his whole countenance, but not of tranquillity or of happiness. His
manner was well-bred, but rather cold and formal: his conversation
circumspect, calculated to draw forth the opinions, and to benefit by the
information of others, rather than to assert or display his own. He seemed
to converse, to think, to live, not with any enjoyment of the present, but
with a view to some future object, about which he was constantly anxious.

Mr. Percy and Mr. Falconer both observed Lord Oldborough attentively during
this visit: Mr. Percy studied him with philosophical curiosity, to discover
what changes had been made in his lordship's character by the operation
of ambition, and to determine how far that passion had contributed to his
happiness; Mr. Falconer studied him with the interested eye of a man of the
world, eager to discern what advantage could be made by ministering to that
ambition, and to decide whether there was about his lordship the making of
a good patron.

There was, he thought, the right twist, if he had but skill to follow,
and humour it in the working; but this was a task of much nicety. Lord
Oldborough appeared to be aware of the commissioner's views, and was not
disposed to burden himself with new _friends_. It seemed easy to go to a
certain point with his lordship, but difficult to get farther; easy to
obtain his attention, but impossible to gain his confidence.

The commissioner, however, had many resources ready; many small means of
fastening himself both on his lordship's private and public interests. He
determined to begin first with the despatch which he had been deciphering.
With this view he led Mr. Percy to speak of the shipwreck, and of M. de
Tourville. Lord Oldborough's attention was immediately awakened; and when
Mr. Falconer perceived that the regret for not having seen M. de Tourville,
and the curiosity to know the nature of his secret negotiations had been
sufficiently excited, the commissioner quitted the subject, as he could go
no farther whilst restrained by Mr. Percy's presence. He took the first
opportunity of leaving the room with his lordship's nephew, Col. Hauton, to
look at some horses, which were to run at the ensuing races.

Left alone with Mr. Percy, Lord Oldborough looked less reserved, for he
plainly saw, indeed Mr. Percy plainly showed, that he had nothing to ask
from the great man, but that he came only to see his friend.

"Many years since we met, Mr. Percy," said his lordship, sitting down and
placing his chair for the first time without considering whether his face
or his back were to the light.--"A great many years since we met, Mr.
Percy; and yet I should not think so from your appearance; you do not look
as if--shall I say it?--five-and-twenty years had passed since that time.
But you have been leading an easy life in the country--the happiest life: I
envy you."

Mr. Percy, thinking that these were words of course, the mere polite _cant_
of a courtier to a country gentleman, smiled, and replied, that few who
were acquainted with their different situations in the world would imagine
that Mr. Percy could be an object of envy to Lord Oldborough, a statesman
at the summit of favour and fortune.

"Not the summit," said Lord Oldborough, sighing; "and if I were even at
the summit, it is, you know, a dangerous situation. Fortune's wheel never
stands still--the highest point is therefore the most perilous." His
lordship sighed again as deeply as before; then spoke, or rather led to
the subject of general politics, of which Mr. Percy gave his opinions with
freedom and openness, yet without ever forgetting the respect due to Lord
Oldborough's situation. His lordship seemed sensible of this attention,
sometimes nodded, and sometimes smiled, as Mr. Percy spoke of public men or
measures; but when he expressed any sentiment of patriotism, or of public
virtue, Lord Oldborough took to his snuff-box, shook and levelled the
snuff; and if he listened, listened as to words superfluous and irrelevant.
When Mr. Percy uttered any principle favourable to the liberty of the
press, or of the people, his lordship would take several pinches of snuff
rapidly, to hide the expression of his countenance; if the topics were
continued, his averted eyes and compressed lips showed disapprobation, and
the difficulty he felt in refraining from reply. From reply, however, he
did absolutely refrain; and after a pause of a few moments, with a smile,
in a softer and lower voice than his usual tone, he asked Mr. Percy some
questions about his family, and turned the conversation again to domestic
affairs;--expressed surprise, that a man of Mr. Percy's talents should live
in such absolute retirement; and seeming to forget what he had said himself
but half an hour before, of the pains and dangers of ambition, and all that
Mr. Percy had said of his love of domestic life, appeared to take it for
granted that Mr. Percy would be glad to shine in public, if opportunity
were not wanting. Upon this supposition, his lordship dexterously pointed
out ways by which he might distinguish himself; threw out assurances of his
own good wishes, compliments to his talents; and, in short, sounded his
heart, still expecting to find corruption or ambition at the bottom. But
none was to be found. Lord Oldborough was convinced of it--and surprised.
Perhaps his esteem for Mr. Percy's understanding fell some degrees--he
considered him as an eccentric person, acting from unaccountable motives;
but still he respected him as that rarest of all things in a politician's
eye--a really honest independent man. He believed also that Mr. Percy had
some regard for him; and whatever portion it might be, it was valuable and
extraordinary--for it was disinterested: besides, they could never cross
in their objects--and as Mr. Percy lived out of the world, and had no
connexion with any party, he was a perfectly safe man. All these thoughts
acted so powerfully upon Lord Oldborough, that he threw aside his reserve,
in a manner which would have astonished and delighted Mr. Falconer. Mr.
Percy was astonished, but not delighted--he saw a noble mind corroded and
debased by ambition--virtuous principle, generous feeling, stifled--a
powerful, capacious understanding distorted--a soul, once expatiating
and full of high thoughts, now confined to a span--bent down to low
concerns--imprisoned in the precincts of a court.

"You pity me," said Lord Oldborough, who seemed to understand Mr. Percy's
thoughts; "you pity me--I pity myself. But such is ambition, and I cannot
live without it--once and always its slave."

"A person of such a strong mind as Lord Oldborough could emancipate himself
from any slavery--even that of habit."

"Yes, if he wished to break through it--but he does not."

"Can he have utterly--"

"Lost his taste for freedom? you would say. Yes--utterly. I see you pity
me," said his lordship with a bitter smile; "and," added he, rising
proudly, "I am unused to be pitied, and I am awkward, I fear, under the
obligation." Resuming his friendly aspect, however, in a moment or two, he
followed Mr. Percy, who had turned to examine a fine picture.

"Yes; a Corregio. You are not aware, my dear sir," continued he, "that
between the youth you knew at Paris, and the man who has now the honour to
speak to you, there is nothing in common--absolutely nothing--except regard
for Mr. Percy. You had always great knowledge of character, I remember; but
with respect to my own, you will recollect that I have the advantage of
possessing _la carte du pays_. You are grown quite a philosopher, I find;
and so am I, in my own way. In short, to put the question between us at
rest for ever, _there is nothing left for me in life but ambition_. Now let
us go to Corregio, or what you please."

Mr. Percy followed his lordship's lead immediately to Italy, to France, to
Paris, and talking over old times and youthful days, the conversation grew
gay and familiar. Lord Oldborough seemed enlivened and pleased, and yet,
as if it were a reminiscence of a former state of existence, he often
repeated, "Ah! those were young days--very young: I was a boy then--quite
a boy." At last Mr. Percy touched upon love and women, and, by accident,
mentioned an Italian lady whom they had known abroad.--A flash of pale
anger, almost of frenzy, passed across Lord Oldborough's countenance:
he turned short, darted full on Mr. Percy a penetrating, imperious,
interrogative look.--Answered by the innocence, the steady openness of Mr.
Percy's countenance, Lord Oldborough grew red instantly, and, conscious
of his unusual change of colour, stood actually abashed. A moment
afterward, commanding his agitation, he forced his whole person to an air
of tranquillity--took up the red book which lay upon his table, walked
deliberately to a window, and, looking earnestly through his glass, asked
if Mr. Percy could recollect who was member for some borough in the
neighbourhood? The conversation after this languished; and though some
efforts were made, it never recovered the tone of ease and confidence. Both
parties felt relieved from an indefinable sort of constraint by the return
of the other gentlemen. Mr. Falconer begged Mr. Percy to go and look at a
carriage of a new construction, which the colonel had just brought from
town; and the colonel accompanying Mr. Percy, the stage was thus left clear
for the commissioner to open his business about M. de Tourville's packet.
He did it with so much address, and with so little circumlocution, that
Lord Oldborough immediately comprehended how important the papers might
be to him, and how necessary it was to secure the decipherer. When Mr.
Percy returned, he found the commissioner and his lordship in earnest and
seemingly confidential conversation. Both Mr. Falconer and Mr. Percy were
now pressed to stay to dine and to sleep at Clermont-park; an invitation
which Mr. Percy declined, but which the commissioner accepted.

In the evening, when the company who had dined at Clermont-park were
settled to cards and music, Lord Oldborough, after walking up and down the
room with the commissioner in silence for some minutes, retired with him
into his study, rang, and gave orders that they should not be interrupted
on any account till supper. The servant informed his lordship that such and
such persons, whom he had appointed, were waiting.--"I cannot possibly see
them till to-morrow," naming the hour. The servant laid on the table before
his lordship a huge parcel of letters. Lord Oldborough, with an air of
repressed impatience, bid the man send his secretary, Mr. Drakelow,--looked
over the letters, wrote with a pencil, and with great despatch, a few words
on the back of each--met Mr. Drakelow as he entered the room--put the
unfolded letters all together into his hands--"The answers on the back--to
be made out in form--ready for signature at six to-morrow."

"Yes, my lord. May I ask--"

"Ask nothing, sir, if you please--I am busy--you have your directions."

Mr. Drakelow bowed submissive, and made his exit with great celerity.

"Now to our business, my dear sir," said his lordship, seating himself at
the table with Mr. Falconer, who immediately produced M. de Tourville's
papers.

It is not at this period of our story necessary to state precisely their
contents; it is sufficient to say, that they opened to Lord Oldborough a
scene of diplomatic treachery abroad, and of ungrateful duplicity at home.
From some of the intercepted letters he discovered that certain of his
colleagues, who appeared to be acting along with him with the utmost
cordiality, were secretly combined against him; and were carrying on an
underplot, to deprive him at once of popularity, favour, place, and power.
The strength, firmness, hardness of mind, which Lord Oldborough exhibited
at the moment of this discovery, perfectly amazed Mr. Falconer. His
lordship gave no sign of astonishment, uttered no indignant exclamation,
nor betrayed any symptoms of alarm; but he listened with motionless
attention, when Mr. Falconer from time to time interrupted his reading, and
put himself to great expense of face and lungs to express his abhorrence
of "such inconceivable treachery." Lord Oldborough maintained an absolute
silence, and waiting till the commissioner had exhausted himself in
invective, would point with his pencil to the line in the paper where he
had left off, and calmly say--"Have the goodness to go on--Let us proceed,
sir, if you please."

The commissioner went on till he came to the most important and interesting
point, and then glancing his eye on his intended patron's profile, which
was towards him, he suddenly stopped. Lord Oldborough, raising his head
from the hand on which it leaned, turned his full front face upon Mr.
Falconer.

"Let me hear the whole, if you please, sir.--To form a judgment upon any
business, it is necessary to have the whole before us.--You need not fear
to shock my feelings, sir. I wish always to see men and things as they
are." Mr. Falconer still hesitating, and turning over the leaves--"As my
friend in this business, Mr. Falconer," continued his lordship, "you will
comprehend that the essential point is to put me as soon as possible in
possession of the facts--then I can decide, and act. If it will not fatigue
you too much, I wish to go through these papers before I sleep."

"Fatigue! Oh, my lord, I am not in the least--cannot be fatigued! But the
fact is, I cannot go on; for the next pages I have not yet deciphered--the
cipher changes here."

Lord Oldborough looked much disappointed and provoked; but, after a few
minutes' pause, calmly said, "What time will it take, sir, to decipher the
remainder?"

The commissioner protested he did not know--could not form an idea--he and
his son had spent many hours of intense labour on the first papers before
he could make out the first cipher--now this was a new one, probably more
difficult, and whether he could make it out at all, or in what time, he
was utterly unable to say. Lord Oldborough replied, "Let us understand one
another at once, Commissioner Falconer, if you please. My maxim, and the
maxim of every man in public life is, or ought to be--Serve me, and I will
serve you. I have no pretensions to Mr. Falconer's friendship on any other
grounds, I am sensible; nor on any other terms can he have a claim to
whatever power of patronage I possess. But I neither serve nor will be
served by halves: my first object is to make myself master, as soon as
possible, of the contents of the papers in your hands; my next to secure
your inviolable secrecy on the whole transaction."

The commissioner was going to make vows of secrecy and protestations of
zeal, but Lord Oldborough cut all that short with "Of course--of course,"
pronounced in the driest accent, and went on with, "Now, sir, you know
my object; will you do me the honour to state yours?--you will excuse my
abruptness--time in some circumstances is every thing--Do me and yourself
the justice to say at once what return I can make for the service you have
done or may do me and government."

"My only hesitation in speaking, my lord, was--"

"Have no hesitation in speaking, I beseech you, sir."

I _beseech_, in tone, was in effect, I _command_ you, sir;--and Mr.
Falconer, under the influence of an imperious and superior mind, came at
once to that point, which he had not intended to come to for a month, or to
approach till after infinite precaution and circumlocution.

"My object is to push my son Cunningham in the diplomatic line, my
lord--and I wish to make him one of your secretaries."

The commissioner stopped short, astonished to find that the truth, and the
whole truth, had absolutely passed his lips, and in such plain words; but
they could not be recalled: he gasped for breath--and began an apologetical
sentence about poor Mr. Drakelow, whom he should be sorry to injure or
displace.

"Never mind that now--time enough to think of Drakelow," said Lord
Oldborough, walking up and down the room--then stopping short, "I must see
your son, sir."

"I will bring him here to-morrow, if your lordship pleases."

"As soon as possible! But he can come surely without your going for
him--write, and beg that we may see him at breakfast--at nine, if you
please."

The letter was written, and despatched immediately. Lord Oldborough, whilst
the commissioner was writing, noted down the heads of what he had learned
from M. de Tourville's packet: then locked up those of the papers which had
been deciphered, put the others into Mr. Falconer's charge, and recommended
it to him to use all possible despatch in deciphering the remainder.--The
commissioner declared he would sit up all night at the task; this did
not appear to be more than was expected.--His lordship rung, and ordered
candles in Mr. Falconer's room, then returned to the company in the saloon,
without saying another word. None could guess by his countenance or
deportment that any unusual circumstance had happened, or that his mind was
in the least perturbed. Mrs. Drakelow thought he was wholly absorbed in a
rubber of whist, and Miss Drakelow at the same time was persuaded that he
was listening to her music.

Punctual to the appointed hour--for ambition is as punctual to appointments
as love--Mr. Cunningham Falconer made his appearance at nine, and was
presented by his father to Lord Oldborough, who received him, not with
any show of gracious kindness, but as one who had been forced upon him by
circumstances, and whom, for valuable considerations, he had bargained
to take into his service. To try the young diplomatist's talents, Lord
Oldborough led him first to speak on the subject of the Tourville papers,
then urged him on to the affairs of Germany, and the general interests and
policy of the different courts of Europe. Trembling, and in agony for his
son, the commissioner stood aware of the danger of the youth's venturing
out of his depth, aware also of the danger of showing that he dared not
venture, and incapable of deciding between these equal fears: but soon he
was re-assured by the calmness of his son. Cunningham, who had not so much
information or capacity, but who had less sensibility than his father,
often succeeded where his father's timidity prognosticated failure. Indeed,
on the present occasion, the care which the young diplomatist took not to
commit himself, the dexterity with which he "helped himself by countenance
and gesture," and "was judicious by signs," proved that he was well skilled
in all those arts of _seeming wise_, which have been so well noted for
use by "the greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind." Young though he was,
Cunningham was quite sufficiently slow, circumspect, and solemn, to deserve
to be ranked among those whom Bacon calls _Formalists_, "who do nothing, or
little, very solemnly--who seem always to keep back somewhat; and when they
know within themselves that they speak of what they do not know, would,
nevertheless, seem to others to know that of which they may not well
speak."

Lord Oldborough listened to whatever he said, and marked all that he did
not say with an air of attentive composure, which, as Mr. Falconer thought,
augured well for his son; but now and then there was, for scarcely a
definable portion of time, an expression of humour in his lordship's eye, a
sarcastic smile, which escaped the commissioner's observation, and which,
even if he had observed, he could not, with his limited knowledge of Lord
Oldborough's character, have rightly interpreted. If his lordship had
expressed his thoughts, perhaps, they might have been, though in words less
quaint, nearly the same as those of the philosophic statesman, who says,
"It is a ridiculous thing, and fit for a satire to persons of judgment,
to see what shifts these _formalists_ have, and what prospectives to make
superficies to seem body that hath depth and bulk."

But Lord Oldborough philosophizing, and Lord Oldborough acting, were two
different people. His perception of the ridicule of the young secretary's
solemnity, and of the insufficiency of his information and capacity, made
no alteration in the minister's determination. The question was not whether
the individual was fit for this place, or that employment, but whether
it was expedient he should have it for the security of political power.
Waiving all delicacy, Lord Oldborough now, as in most other cases, made it
his chief object to be understood and obeyed; therefore he applied directly
to the universal motive, and spoke the universal language of interest.

"Mr. Falconer," said he, "if you put me in possession of the remainder of
M. de Tourville's papers this night, I will to-morrow morning put this
young gentleman into the hands of my present secretary, Mr. Drakelow, who
will prepare him for the situation you desire. Mr. Drakelow himself will,
probably, soon leave me, to be employed more advantageously for his
majesty's service, in some other manner."

The decipherers, father and son, shut themselves up directly, and set
to work with all imaginable zeal. The whole packet was nearly expounded
before night, and the next morning Lord Oldborough performed his part of
the agreement. He sent for Mr. Drakelow, and said, "Mr. Drakelow, I beg
that, upon your return to town, you will be so good as to take this young
gentleman, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, to your office. Endeavour to prepare
him to supply your place with me whenever it may be proper for his
majesty's service, and for your interest, to send you to Constantinople,
or elsewhere."

Mr. Drakelow, though infinitely surprised and displeased, bowed all
submission. Nothing else he knew was to be done with Lord Oldborough. His
lordship, as soon as his secretary had left the room, turned to Cunningham,
and said, "You will not mention anything concerning M. de Tourville's
intercepted papers to Mr. Drakelow, or to any other person. Affairs call me
to town immediately: to-morrow morning at six, I set off. You will, if you
please, sir, be ready to accompany me. I will not detain you longer from
any preparations you may have to make for your journey."

No sooner had the father and son quitted Lord Oldborough's presence than
Mr. Falconer exclaimed with exultation, "I long to see our good cousin
Percy, that I may tell him how I have provided already for one of my sons."

"But remember, sir," said Cunningham, "that Mr. Percy is to know nothing of
the Tourville packet."

"To be sure not," said Mr. Falconer; "he is to know nothing of the means,
he is to see only the end--the successful end. Ha! cousin Percy, I think we
know rather better than you do how to make something of every thing--even
of a shipwreck."

"To prevent his having any suspicions," continued Cunningham, "it will be
best to give Mr. Percy some probable reason for Lord Oldborough's _taking
to us_ so suddenly. It will be well to hint that you have opportunities of
obliging about the borough, or about the address at the county-meeting,
or--"

"No, no; no particulars; never go to particulars," said old Falconer:
"stick to generals, and you are safe. Say, in general, that I had an
opportunity of obliging government. Percy is not curious, especially about
_jobbing_. He will ask no questions; or, if he should, I can easily put him
upon a wrong scent. Now, Cunningham, listen to me: I have done my best, and
have pushed you into a fine situation: but remember, you cannot get on in
the diplomatic line without a certain degree of diplomatic information. I
have pointed this out to you often; you have neglected to make yourself
master of these things, and, for want of them in office, you will come, I
fear, some day or other to shame."

"Do not be afraid of that--no danger of my coming to shame any more than
a thousand other people in office, who never trouble themselves about
diplomatic information, and all that. There is always some clerk who knows
the forms, and with those, and looking for what one wants upon the spur
of the occasion in books and pamphlets, and so forth, one may go on very
well--if one does but know how to keep one's own counsel. You see I got
through with Lord Oldborough to-day--"

"Ay--but I assure you I trembled for you, and I could have squeezed myself
into an auger-hole once, when you blundered about that treaty of which I
knew that you knew nothing."

"Oh! sir, I assure you I had turned over the leaves. I was correct enough
as to the dates; and, suppose I blundered, as my brother Buckhurst says,
half the world never know what they are saying, and the other half never
find it out.--Why, sir, you were telling me the other night such a blunder
of Prince Potemkin's--"

"Very true," interrupted the commissioner; "but you are not Prince
Potemkin, nor yet a prime minister; if you were, no matter how little you
knew--you might get other people to supply your deficiencies. But now,
in your place, and in the course of making your way upwards, you will be
called upon to supply _others_ with the information they may want. And you
know I shall not be always at your elbow; therefore I really am afraid--"

"Dear sir, fear nothing," said Cunningham: "I shall do as well as others
do--the greatest difficulty is over. I have taken the first step, and it
has cost nothing."

"Well, get on, my boy--honestly, if you can--but get on."




CHAPTER III.


With the true genius of a political castle-builder, Mr. Falconer began to
add story after story to the edifice, of which he had thus promptly and
successfully laid the foundation. Having by a lucky hit provided for one of
his sons, that is to say, put him in a fair way of being provided for, the
industrious father began to form plans for the advancement of his two other
sons, Buckhurst and John: Buckhurst was destined by his father for the
church; John for the army. The commissioner, notwithstanding he had been
closeted for some hours with Lord Oldborough, and notwithstanding his son
Cunningham was to be one of his lordship's secretaries, was well aware that
little or no progress had been made in Lord Oldborough's real favour or
confidence. Mr. Falconer knew that he had been literally _paid by the job_,
that he was considered and treated accordingly; yet, upon the whole, he was
well pleased that it should be so, for he foresaw the possibility of his
doing for his lordship many more jobs, public and private. He lost no time
in preparing for the continuity of his secret services, and in creating
a political necessity for his being employed in future, in a manner that
might ensure the advancement of the rest of his family. In the first place,
he knew that Lord Oldborough was desirous, for the enlargement of the
grounds at Clermont-park, to purchase certain adjoining lands, which, from
some ancient pique, the owner was unwilling to sell. The proprietor was a
tenant of Mr. Falconer's: he undertook to negotiate the business, and to
use his influence to bring his tenant to reason. This offer, made through
Cunningham, was accepted by Lord Oldborough, and the negotiation led to
fresh communications.--There was soon to be a county meeting, and an
address was to be procured in favour of certain measures of government,
which it was expected would be violently opposed. In the commissioner's
letters to his son, the private secretary, he could say and suggest
whatever he pleased; he pointed out the gentlemen of the county who ought
to be conciliated, and he offered his services to represent things properly
to some with whom he was intimate. The sheriff and the under-sheriff also
should know, without being informed directly from ministry, what course
in conducting the meeting would be agreeable in a certain quarter--who so
proper to say and do all that might be expedient as Mr. Falconer, who was
on the spot, and well acquainted with the county?--The commissioner was
informed by the private secretary, that his services would be acceptable.
There happened also, at this time, to be some disputes and grievances in
that part of the country about tax-gatherers. Mr. Falconer hinted, that he
could soften and accommodate matters, if he were empowered to do so--and he
was so empowered. Besides all this, there was a borough in that county, in
which the interest of government had been declining; attempts were made to
_open the borough_--Mr. Falconer could be of use in _keeping it close_--and
he was commissioned to do every thing in his power in the business. In a
short time Mr. Falconer was acting on all these points as an agent and
partizan of Lord Oldborough's. But there was one thing which made him
uneasy; he was acting here, as in many former instances, merely upon vague
hopes of future reward.

Whilst his mind was full of these thoughts, a new prospect of advantage
opened to him in another direction. Colonel Hauton, Lord Oldborough's
nephew, stayed, during his uncle's absence, at Clermont-park, to be in
readiness for the races, which, this year, were expected to be uncommonly
fine. Buckhurst Falconer had been at school and at the university with the
colonel, and had frequently helped him in his Latin exercises. The colonel
having been always deficient in scholarship, he had early contracted an
aversion to literature, which at last amounted to an antipathy even to the
very sight of books, in consequence, perhaps, of his uncle's ardent and
precipitate desire to make him apply to them whilst his head was full of
tops and balls, kites and ponies. Be this as it may, Commissioner Falconer
thought his son Buckhurst might benefit by his school friendship, and might
now renew and improve the connexion. Accordingly, Buckhurst waited upon
the colonel,--was immediately recognized, and received with promising
demonstrations of joy.

It would be difficult, indeed impossible, to describe Colonel Hauton, so
as to distinguish him from a thousand other young men of the same class,
except, perhaps, that he might be characterized by having more exclusive
and inveterate selfishness. Yet this was so far from appearing or being
suspected on a first acquaintance, that he was generally thought a
sociable, good-natured fellow. It was his absolute dependence upon others
for daily amusement and ideas, or, rather, for knowing what to do with
himself, that gave him this semblance of being sociable; the total want of
proper pride and dignity in his whole deportment, a certain _slang_ and
familiarity of tone, gave superficial observers the notion that he was
good-natured. It was Colonel Hauton's great ambition to look like his own
coachman; he succeeded only so far as to look like his groom: but though he
kept company with jockeys and coachmen, grooms and stable-boys, yet not the
stiffest, haughtiest, flat-backed Don of Spain, in Spain's proudest days,
could be more completely aristocratic in his principles, or more despotic
in his habits. This could not break out to his equals, and his equals cared
little how he treated his inferiors. His present pleasure, or rather his
present business, for no man made more a business of pleasure than Colonel
Hauton, was _the turf_. Buckhurst Falconer could not here assist him as
much as in making Latin verses--but he could admire and sympathize; and the
colonel, proud of being now the superior, proud of his _knowing style_ and
his _capital_ stud, enjoyed Buckhurst's company particularly, pressed him
to stay at Clermont-park, and to accompany him to the races. There was to
be a _famous_ match between Colonel Hauton's High-Blood and Squire Burton's
Wildfire; and the preparations of the horses and of their riders occupied
the intervening days. With all imaginable care, anxiety, and solemnity,
these important preparations were conducted. At stated hours, Colonel
Hauton, and with him Buckhurst, went to see High-Blood rubbed down,
and fed, and watered, and exercised, and minuted, and rubbed down, and
littered. Next to the horse, the rider, Jack Giles, was to be attended
to with the greatest solicitude; he was to be weighed--and starved--and
watched--and drammed--and _sweated_--and weighed again--and so on in daily
succession; and harder still, through this whole course he was to be
kept in humour: "None that ever sarved man or beast," as the stable-boy
declared, "ever worked harder for their bread than his master and master's
companion did this week for their pleasure." At last the great, the
important day arrived, and Jack Giles was weighed for the last time in
public, and so was Tom Hand, Squire Burton's rider--and High-Blood and
Wildfire were brought out; and the spectators assembled in the stand,
and about the scales, were all impatience, especially those who had
betted on either of the horses. And, Now, Hauton!--Now, Burton!--Now,
High-Blood!--Now, Wildfire!--Now, Jack Giles!--and Now, Tom Hand! resounded
on all sides. The gentlemen on the race-ground were all on tiptoe in their
stirrups. The ladies in the stand stretched their necks of snow, and nobody
looked at them.--Two men were run over, and nobody took them up.--Two
ladies fainted, and two gentlemen betted across them. This was no time
for nice observances--Jack Giles's spirit began to flag--and Tom Hand's
judgment _to tell_--High-Blood, on the full stretch, was within view of
the winning-post, when Wildfire, quite in wind, was put to his speed by
the judicious Tom Hand--he sprang forward, came up with High-Blood--passed
him--Jack Giles strove in vain to regain his ground--High-Blood was blown,
beyond the power of whip or spur--Wildfire reached the post, and Squire
Burton won the match hollow.

His friends congratulated him and themselves loudly, and extolled Tom Hand
and Wildfire to the skies. In the moment of disappointment, Colonel Hauton,
out of humour, said something that implied a suspicion of unfairness on the
part of Burton or Tom Hand, which the honest squire could not brook either
for self or rider. He swore that his Tom Hand was as honest a fellow as any
in England, and he would back him for such. The colonel, depending on his
own and his uncle's importance, on his party and his flatterers, treated
the squire with some of the haughtiness of rank, which the squire retorted
with some rustic English humour. The colonel, who had not wit at will to
put down his antagonist, became still more provoked to see that such a
low-born fellow as the squire should and could laugh and make others laugh.
For the lack of wit the colonel had recourse to insolence, and went on
from one impertinence to another, till the squire, enraged, declared that
he would not be browbeat by any lord's nephew or jackanapes colonel that
ever wore a head; and as he spoke, tremendous in his ire, Squire Burton
brandished high the British horsewhip. At this critical moment, as it has
been asserted by some of the bystanders, the colonel _quailed_ and backed a
few paces; but others pretend that Buckhurst Falconer pushed before him. It
is certain that Buckhurst stopped the blow--wrested the horsewhip from the
squire--was challenged by him on the spot--accepted the challenge--fought
the squire--_winged_ him--appeared on the race ground afterwards, and was
admired by the ladies in public, and by his father in private, who looked
upon the duel and horsewhipping, from which he thus saved his patron's
nephew, as the most fortunate circumstance that could have happened to his
son upon his entrance into life.

"Such an advantage as this gives us such a claim upon the colonel--and,
indeed, upon the whole family. Lord Oldborough, having no children of his
own, looks to the nephew as his heir; and though he may be vexed now and
then by the colonel's extravagance, and angry that he could not give this
nephew more of a political turn, yet such as he is, depend upon it he can
do what he pleases with Lord Oldborough. Whoever has the nephew's ear, has
the uncle's heart; or I should say, whoever has the nephew's heart, has the
uncle's ear."

"Mayn't we as well put hearts out of the question on all sides, sir?" said
Buckhurst.

"With all my heart," said his father, laughing, "provided we don't put a
good living out of the question on our side."

Buckhurst looked averse, and said he did not know there was any such thing
in question.

"No!" said his father: "was it then from the pure and abstract love of
being horsewhipped, or shot at, that you took this quarrel off his hands?"

"Faith! I did it from spirit, pure spirit," said Buckhurst: "I could not
stand by, and see one who had been my schoolfellow horsewhipped--if he did
not stand by himself, _yet_ I could not but stand by _him_, for you know I
was there as one of his party--and as I backed his bets on High-Blood, I
could do no less than back his cause altogether.--Oh! I could not stand by
and see _a chum_ of my own horsewhipped."

"Well, that was all very spirited and generous; but now, as you are
something too old for mere schoolboy notions," said the commissioner, "let
us look a little farther, and see what we can make of it. It's only a
silly boyish thing as you consider it; but I hope we can turn it to good
account."

"I never thought of turning it to account, sir."

"Think of it now," said the father, a little provoked by the careless
disinterestedness of the son. "In plain English, here is a colonel in his
majesty's service saved from a horsewhipping--a whole noble family saved
from disgrace: these are things not to be forgotten; that is, not to be
forgotten, if you force people to remember them: otherwise--my word for
it--I know the great--the whole would be forgotten in a week. Therefore,
leave me to follow the thing up properly with the uncle, and do you never
let it sleep with the nephew: sometimes a bold stroke, sometimes a delicate
touch, just as the occasion serves, or as may suit the company present--all
that I trust to your own address and judgment."

"Trust nothing, sir, to my address or judgment; for in these things I have
neither. I always act just from impulse and feeling, right or wrong--I have
no talents for _finesse_--leave them all to Cunningham--that's his trade,
and he likes it, luckily: and you should be content with having one such
genius in your family--no family could bear two."

"Come, come, pray be serious, Buckhurst. If you have not or will not use
any common sense and address to advance yourself, leave that to me. You
see how I have pushed up Cunningham already, and all I ask of you is to be
quiet, and let me push you up."

"Oh! dear sir, I am very much obliged to you: if that is all, I will be
quite quiet--so that I am not to do any thing shabby or dirty for it. I
should be vastly glad to get a good place, and be provided for handsomely."

"No doubt; and let me tell you that many I could name have, with inferior
claims, and without any natural connexion or relationship, from the mere
favour of proper friends, obtained church benefices of much greater value
than the living we have in our eye: you know--"

"I do not know, indeed," said Buckhurst; "I protest I have no living in my
eye."

"What! not know that the living of Chipping-Friars is in the gift of
Colonel Hauton--and the present incumbent has had one paralytic stroke
already. There's a prospect for you, Buckhurst!"

"To be frank with you, sir, I have no taste for the church."

"No taste for nine hundred a year, Buckhurst? No desire for fortune, Mr.
Philosopher?"

"Pardon me, a very strong taste for that, sir--not a bit of a
philosopher--as much in love with fortune as any man, young or old: is
there no way to fortune but through the church?"

"None for you so sure and so easy, all circumstances considered," said his
father. "I have planned and settled it, and you have nothing to do but to
get yourself ordained as soon as possible. I shall write to my friend the
bishop for that purpose this very night."

"Let me beg; father, that you will not be so precipitate. Upon my word,
sir, I cannot go into orders. I am not--in short, I am not fit for the
church."

The father stared with an expression between anger and astonishment.

"Have not you gone through the university?"

"Yes, sir:--but--but I am scarcely sober, and _staid_, and moral enough for
the church. Such a wild fellow as I am, I really could not in conscience--I
would not upon any account, for any living upon earth, or any emolument, go
into the church, unless I thought I should do credit to it."

"And why should not you do credit to the church? I don't see that you are
wilder than your neighbours, and need not be more scrupulous. There is
G----, who at your age was wild enough, but he took up in time, and is now
a plump dean. Then there is the bishop that is just made: I remember him
such a youth as you are. Come, come, these are idle scruples. Let me hear
no more, my dear Buckhurst, of your conscience."

"Dear sir, I never pleaded my conscience on any occasion before--you know
that I am no puritan--but really on this point I have some conscience, and
I beg you not to press me farther. You have other sons; and if you cannot
spare Cunningham, that treasure of diplomacy!--there's John; surely you
might contrive to spare him for the church."

"Spare him I would, and welcome. But you know I could never get John into
orders."

"Why not, sir? John, I'll swear, would have no objection to the church,
provided you could get him a good fat living."

"But I am not talking of _his_ objections. To be sure he would make no
objection to a good fat living, nor would any body in his senses, except
yourself. But I ask you how I could possibly get your brother John into the
church? John's a dunce,--and you know it."

"Nobody better, sir: but are there no dunces in the church?--And as you are
so good as to think that I'm no wilder than my neighbours, you surely will
not say that my brother is more a dunce than his neighbours. Put him into
the hands of a clever grinder or crammer, and they would soon cram the
necessary portion of Latin and Greek into him, and they would get him
through the university for us readily enough; and a degree once obtained,
he might snap his fingers at Latin and Greek all the rest of his life. Once
in orders, and he might sit down upon his fat living, or lie down content,
all his days, only taking care to have some poor devil of a curate up and
about, doing duty for him."

"So I find you have no great scruples for your brother, whatever you may
have for yourself?"

"Sir, I am not the keeper of my brother's conscience--Indeed, if I were,
you might congratulate me in the words of Sir B. R. upon the possession of
a sinecure place."

"It is a pity, Buckhurst, that you cannot use your wit for yourself as well
as for other people. Ah! Buckhurst! Buckhurst! you will, I fear, do worse
in the world than any of your brothers; for wits are always _unlucky_:
sharp-sighted enough to every thing else, but blind, stone blind to their
own interest. Wit is folly, when one is talking of serious business."

"Well, my dear father, be _agreeable_, and I will not be witty.--In fact,
in downright earnest, the sum total of the business is, that I have a great
desire to go into the army, and I entreat you to procure me a commission."

"Then the sum total of the business is, that I will not; for I cannot
afford to purchase you a commission, and to maintain you in the army--"

"But by using interest, perhaps, sir," said Buckhurst.

"My interest must be all for your brother John; for I tell you I can do
nothing else for him but put him into the army.--He's a dunce.--I must get
him a commission, and then I have done with him."

"I wish I were a dunce," said Buckhurst, sighing; "for then I might go into
the army--instead of being forced into the church."

"There's no force upon your inclinations, Buckhurst," said his father in a
soft tone; "I only show you that it is impossible I should maintain you in
the army, and, therefore, beg you to put the army out of your head. And I
don't well see what else you could do. You have not application enough for
the bar, nor have I any friends among the attorneys except Sharpe, who,
between you and me, might take your dinners, and leave you without a brief
afterwards. You have talents, I grant," continued the commissioner, "and
if you had but application, and if your uncle the judge had not died last
year--"

"Oh, sir, he is dead, and we can't help it," interrupted Buckhurst. "And as
for me, I never had, and never shall have, any application: so pray put the
bar out of your mind."

"Very cavalier, indeed!--but I will make you serious at once, Buckhurst.
You have nothing to expect from my death--I have not a farthing to leave
you--my place, you know, is only for life--your mother's fortune is all in
annuity, and two girls to be provided for--and to live as we must live--up
to and beyond my income--shall have nothing to leave. Though you are my
eldest son, you see it is in vain to look to my death--so into the church
you must go, or be a beggar--and get a living or starve. Now I have done,"
concluded the commissioner, quitting his son; "and I leave you to think of
what has been said."

Buckhurst thought and thought; but still his interest and his conscience
were at variance, and he could not bring himself either to be virtuous or
vicious enough to comply with his father's wishes. He could not decide to
go into the church merely from interested motives--from that his conscience
revolted; he could not determine to make himself fit to do credit to
the sacred profession--against this his habits and his love of pleasure
revolted. He went to his brother John, to try what could be done with him.
Latin and Greek were insuperable objections with John; besides, though
he had a dull imagination in general, John's fancy had been smitten with
one bright idea of an epaulette, from which no considerations, fraternal,
political, moral, or religious, could distract his attention.--His genius,
he said, was for the army, and into the army he would go.--So to his
genius, Buckhurst, in despair, was obliged to leave him.--The commissioner
neglected not to push the claim which he had on Colonel Hauton, and he
chose his time so well, when proper people were by, and when the colonel
did not wish to have the squire, and the horse-whip, and the duel, brought
before the public, that he obtained, if not a full acknowledgment of
obligation, a promise of doing any thing and every thing in his power
for his friend Buckhurst. Any thing and every thing were indefinite,
unsatisfactory terms; and the commissioner, bold in dealing with the
timid temper of the colonel, though he had been cautious with the
determined character of the uncle, pressed his point--named the living of
Chipping-Friars--showed how well he would be satisfied, and how well he
could represent matters, if the promise were given; and at the same time
made it understood how loudly he could complain, and how disgraceful his
complaints might prove to the Oldborough family, if his son were treated
with ingratitude. The colonel particularly dreaded that he should be
suspected of want of spirit, and that his uncle should have the transaction
laid before him in this improper point of view. He pondered for a few
moments, and the promise for the living of Chipping-Friars was given. The
commissioner, secure of this, next returned to the point with his son, and
absolutely insisted upon his--going into orders. Buckhurst, who had tried
wit and raillery in vain, now tried persuasion and earnest entreaties; but
these were equally fruitless: his father, though an easy, good-natured man,
except where his favourite plans were crossed, was peremptory, and, without
using harsh words, he employed the harshest measures to force his son's
compliance. Buckhurst had contracted some debts at the university, none of
any great consequence, but such as he could not pay immediately.--The bets
he had laid and lost upon High-Blood were also to be provided for; debts
of honour claimed precedency, and must be directly discharged. His father
positively refused to assist him, except upon condition of his compliance
with his wishes; and so far from affording him any means of settling with
his creditors, it has been proved, from the commissioner's _private_
answers to some of their applications, that he not only refused to pay
a farthing for his son, but encouraged the creditors to threaten him in
the strongest manner with the terrors of law and arrest. Thus pressed
and embarrassed, this young man, who had many honourable and religious
sentiments and genuine feelings, but no power of adhering to principle or
reason, was miserable beyond expression one hour--and the next he became
totally forgetful that there was any thing to be thought of but the
amusement of the moment. Incapable of coming to any serious decision, he
walked up and down his room talking, partly to himself, and partly, for
want of a better companion, to his brother John.

"So I must pay Wallis to-morrow, or he'll arrest me; and I must give my
father an answer about the church to-night--for he writes to the bishop,
and will wait no longer. Oh! hang it.' hang it, John! what the devil shall
I do? My father won't pay a farthing for me, unless I go into the church!"

"Well, then, why can't you go into the church!" said John: "since you are
through the university, the worst is over."

"But I think it so wrong, so base--for money--for emolument! I cannot
do it. I am not fit for the church--I know I shall disgrace it," said
Buckhurst, striking his forehead: "I cannot do it--I can not--it is against
my conscience."

John stopped, as he was filling his shooting-pouch, and looked at
Buckhurst (his mouth half open) with an expression of surprise at these
demonstrations of sensibility. He had some sympathy for the external
symptoms of pain which he saw in his brother, but no clear conception of
the internal cause.

"Why, Buckhurst," said he, "if you cannot do it, you can't, you know,
Buckhurst: but I don't see why you should be a disgrace to the church more
than another, as my father says. If I were but through the university, I
had as lieve go into the church as not--that's all I can say. And if my
genius were not for the military line, there's nothing I should relish
better than the living of Chipping-Friars, I'm sure. The only thing that I
see against it is, that that paralytic incumbent may live many a year: but,
then, you get your debts paid now by only going into orders, and that's a
great point. But if it goes against your conscience--you know best--if you
can't, you can't."

"After all, I can't go to jail--I can't let myself be arrested--I can't
starve--I can't be a beggar," said Buckhurst; "and, as you say, I should
be so easy if these cursed debts were paid--and if I got this living of
nine hundred a year, how comfortable I should be! Then I could marry, by
Jove! and I'd propose directly for Caroline Percy, for I'm confoundedly in
love with her--such a sweet tempered, good creature!--not a girl so much
admired! Colonel Hauton, and G----, and P----, and D----, asked me, 'Who is
that pretty girl?'--She certainly is a very pretty girl."

"She certainly is," repeated John. "This devil of a fellow never cleans my
gun."

"Not regularly handsome, neither," pursued Buckhurst; "but, as Hauton says,
fascinating and new; and a new face in public is a great matter. Such a
fashionable-looking figure, too--though she has not _come out_ yet; dances
charmingly--would dance divinely, if she would let herself out; and she
sings and plays like an angel, fifty times better than our two precious
sisters, who have been _at it_ from their cradles, with all the Signor
_Squalicis_ at their elbows. Caroline Percy never exhibits in public: the
mother does not like it, I suppose."

"So I suppose," said John. "Curse this flint!--flints are growing worse
and worse every day--I wonder what in the world are become of all the good
flints there used to be!"

"Very unlike our mother, I am sure," continued Buckhurst. "There are
Georgiana and Bell at all the parties and concerts as regularly as any of
the professors, standing up in the midst of the singing men and women,
favouring the public in as fine a bravura style, and making as ugly faces
as the best of them. Do you remember the Italian's compliment to Miss
* * * * *?--I vish, miss, I had your _assurance_.'"

"Very good, ha!--very fair, faith!" said John. "Do you know what I've done
with my powder horn?"

"Not I--put it in the oven, may be, to dry," said Buckhurst. "But as I was
saying of my dear Caroline--_My_ Caroline! she is not mine yet."

"Very true," said John.

"Very true! Why, John, you are enough to provoke a saint!"

"I was agreeing with you, I thought," said John.

"But nothing is so provoking as always agreeing with one--and I can tell
you, Mr. Verytrue, that though Caroline Percy is not mine yet, I have
nevertheless a little suspicion, that, such even as I am, she might readily
be brought to love, honour, and obey me."

"I don't doubt it, for I never yet knew a woman that was not ready enough
to be married," quoth John. "But this is not the right ramrod, after all."

"There you are wrong, John, on the other side," said Buckhurst; "for I can
assure you, Miss Caroline Percy is not one of your young ladies who would
marry any body. And even though she might like me, I am not at all sure
that she would marry me--for obedience to the best of fathers might
interfere."

"There's the point," said John; "for thereby hangs the fortune; and it
would be a _deuced_ thing to have the girl without the fortune."

"Not so _deuced_ a thing to me as you think," said Buckhurst, laughing;
"for, poor as I am, I can assure you the fortune is not my object--I am not
a mercenary dog."

"By-the-bye," cried John, "now you talk of dogs, I wish to Heaven above,
you had not given away that fine puppy of mine to that foolish old man, who
never was out a shooting in his days--the dog's just as much thrown away as
if you had drowned him. Now, do you know, if I had had _the making_ of that
puppy--"

"Puppy!" exclaimed Buckhurst: "is it possible you can be thinking of
a puppy, John, when I am talking to you of what is of so much
consequence?--when the whole happiness of my life is at stake?"

"Stake!--Well, but what can I do more!" said John: "have not I been
standing here this half hour with my gun in my hand this fine day,
listening to you prosing about I don't know what?"

"That's the very thing I complain of--that you do not know what: a pretty
brother!" said Buckhurst.

John made no further reply, but left the room sullenly, whistling as he
went.

Left to his own cogitations, Buckhurst fell into a reverie upon the charms
of Caroline Percy, and upon the probable pleasure of dancing with her at
the race-ball; after this, he recurred to the bitter recollection, that he
must decide about his debts, and the church. A bright idea came into his
mind, that he might have recourse to Mr. Percy, and, perhaps, prevail upon
him to persuade his father not to force him to a step which he could not
reconcile either to his conscience or his inclination.--No sooner thought
than done.--He called for his horse and rode as hard as he could to
Percy-hall.--When a boy he had been intimate in the Percy family; but
he had been long absent at school and at the university; they had seen
him only during the vacations, and since his late return to the country.
Though Mr. Percy could not entirely approve of his character, yet he
thought there were many good points about Buckhurst; the frankness and
candour with which he now laid his whole mind and all his affairs open
to him--debts--love--fears--hopes--follies--faults--without reserve or
extenuation, interested Mr. Percy in his favour.--Pitying his distress,
and admiring the motives from which he acted, Mr. Percy said, that though
he had no right to interfere in Mr. Falconer's family affairs, yet that
he could, and would, so far assist Buckhurst, as to lend him the money
for which he was immediately pressed, that he might not be driven by
necessity to go into that profession, which ought to be embraced only from
the highest and purest motives. Buckhurst thanked him with transports
of gratitude for this generous kindness, which was far beyond his
expectations, and which, indeed, had never entered into his hopes. Mr.
Percy seized the moment when the young man's mind was warmed with good
feelings, to endeavour to bring him to serious thoughts and rational
determinations about his future life. He represented, that it was
unreasonable to expect that his father should let him go into the army,
when he had received an education to prepare himself for a profession, in
which his literary talents might be of advantage both to himself and his
family; that Mr. Falconer was not rich enough to forward two of his sons
in the army; that if Buckhurst, from conscientious motives, declined the
provision which his father had in view for him in the church, he was bound
to exert himself to obtain an independent maintenance in another line
of life; that he had talents which would succeed at the bar, if he had
application and perseverance sufficient to go through the necessary
drudgery at the commencement of the study of the law.

Here Buckhurst groaned.--But Mr. Percy observed that there was no other way
of proving that he acted from conscientious motives respecting the church;
for otherwise it would appear that he preferred the army only because
he fancied it would afford a life of idleness and pleasure.--That this
would also be his only chance of winning the approbation of the object of
his affections, and of placing himself in a situation in which he could
marry.--Buckhurst, who was capable of being strongly influenced by good
motives, especially from one who had obliged him, instantly, and in the
most handsome manner, acknowledged the truth and justice of Mr. Percy's
arguments, and declared that he was ready to begin the study of the law
directly, if his father would consent to it; and that he would submit to
any drudgery rather than do what he felt to be base and wrong. Mr. Percy,
at his earnest request, applied to Mr. Falconer, and with all the delicacy
that was becoming, claimed the right of relationship to speak of Mr.
Falconer's family affairs, and told him what he had ventured to do about
Buckhurst's debts; and what the young man now wished for himself.--The
commissioner looked much disappointed and vexed.

"The bar!" cried he: "Mr. Percy, you don't know him as well as I do. I will
answer for it, he will never go through with it--and then he is to change
his profession again!--and all the expense and all the trouble is to fall
on me!--and I am to provide for him at last!--In all probability, by the
time Buckhurst knows his own mind, the paralytic incumbent will be dead,
and the living of Chipping-Friars given away.--And where am I to find nine
hundred a year, I pray you, at a minute's notice, for this conscientious
youth, who, by that time, will tell me his scruples were all nonsense, and
that I should have known better than to listen to them? Nine hundred a year
does not come in a man's way at every turn of his life; and if he gives it
up now, it is not my fault--let him look to it."

Mr. Percy replied, "that Buckhurst had declared himself ready to abide
by the consequences, and that he promised he would never complain of the
lot he had chosen for himself, much less reproach his father for his
compliance, and that he was resolute to maintain himself at the bar."

"Yes: very fine.--And how long will it be before he makes nine hundred a
year at the bar?"

Mr. Percy, who knew that none but worldly considerations made any
impression upon this father, suggested that he would have to maintain
his son during the life of the paralytic incumbent, and the expense of
Buckhurst's being at the bar would not probably be greater; and though it
might be several years before he could make nine hundred, or, perhaps,
one hundred a year at the bar, yet that if he succeeded, which, with
Buckhurst's talents, nothing but the want of perseverance could prevent, he
might make nine thousand a year by the profession of the law--more than in
the scope of human probability, and with all the patronage his father's
address could procure, he could hope to obtain in the church.

"Well, let him try--let him try," repeated the commissioner, who, vexed as
he was, did not choose to run the risk of disobliging Mr. Percy, losing a
good match for him, or undergoing the scandal of its being known that he
forced his son into the church.

For obtaining this consent, however reluctantly granted by the
commissioner, Buckhurst warmly thanked Mr. Percy, who made one condition
with him, that he would go up to town immediately to commence his studies.

This Buckhurst faithfully promised to do, and only implored permission to
declare his attachment to Caroline.--Caroline was at this time not quite
eighteen, too young, her father said, to think of forming any serious
engagement, even were it with a person suited to her in fortune and in
every other respect.

Buckhurst declared that he had no idea of endeavouring even to obtain from
Miss Caroline Percy any promise or engagement.--He had been treated, he
said, too generously by her father, to attempt to take any step without his
entire approbation.

He knew he was not, and could not for many years, be in circumstances
that would enable him to support a daughter of Mr. Percy's in the station
to which she was, by her birth and fortune, entitled.--All he asked, he
repeated, was to be permitted to declare to her his passion.

Mr. Percy thought it was more prudent to let it be declared openly than
to have it secretly suspected; therefore he consented to this request,
trusting much to Buckhurst's honour and to Caroline's prudence.

To this first declaration of love Caroline listened with a degree of
composure which astonished and mortified her lover. He had flattered
himself that, at least, her vanity or pride would have been apparently
gratified by her conquest.--But there was none of the flutter of vanity in
her manner, nor any of the repressed satisfaction of pride. There were in
her looks and words only simplicity and dignity.--She said that she was at
present occupied happily in various ways, endeavouring to improve herself,
and that she should be sorry to have her mind turned from these pursuits;
she desired to secure time to compare and judge of her own tastes, and of
the characters of others, before she should make any engagement, or form an
attachment on which the happiness of her life must depend. She said she was
equally desirous to keep herself free, and to avoid injuring the happiness
of the man who had honoured her by his preference; therefore she requested
he would discontinue a pursuit, which she could not encourage him to hope
would ever be successful.--Long before the time when she should think it
prudent to marry, even if she were to meet with a character perfectly
suited to hers, she hoped that her cousin Buckhurst would be united to some
woman who would be able to return his affection.

The manner in which all this was said convinced Buckhurst that she spoke
the plain and exact truth. From the ease and frankness with which she had
hitherto conversed with him, he had flattered himself that it would not
be difficult to prepossess her heart in his favour; but now, when he saw
the same ease and simplicity unchanged in her manner, he was convinced
that he had been mistaken. He had still hopes that in time he might make
an impression upon her, and he urged that she was not yet sufficiently
acquainted with his character to be able to judge whether or not it would
suit hers. She frankly told him all she thought of him, and in doing
so impressed him with the conviction that she had both discerned the
merits and discovered the defects of his character: she gave him back a
representation of himself, which he felt to be exactly just, and yet which
struck him with all the force of novelty.

"It is myself," he exclaimed: "but I never knew myself till now."

He had such pleasure in hearing Caroline speak of him, that he wished even
to hear her speak of his faults--of these he would, however, have been
better pleased, if she had spoken with less calmness and indulgence.

"She is a great way from love as yet," thought Buckhurst. "It is
astonishing, that with powers and knowledge on all other subjects so far
above her age, she should know so little even of the common language of
sentiment; very extraordinary, that with so much kindness, and such an
amiable disposition, she should have so little sensibility."

The novelty of this insensibility, and of this perfect simplicity, so
unlike all he had observed in the manners and minds of other young ladies
to whom he had been accustomed, had, however, a great effect upon her
lover. The openness and unaffected serenity of Caroline's countenance at
this moment appeared to him more charming than any other thing he had ever
beheld in the most finished coquette, or the most fashionable beauty.

What a divine creature she will be a few years hence! thought he. The time
will come, when Love may waken this Psyche!--And what glory it would be to
me to produce to the world such perfection!

With these mixed ideas of love and glory, Buckhurst took leave of Caroline;
still he retained hope in spite of her calm and decided refusal. He knew
the power of constant attention, and the display of ardent passion, to win
the female heart. He trusted also in no slight degree to the reputation he
had already acquired of being a favourite with the fair sex.




CHAPTER IV.


Buckhurst Falconer returned to Percy-hall.

He came provided with something like an excuse--he had business--his father
had desired him to ask Mr. Percy to take charge of a box of family papers
for him, as he apprehended that, when he was absent from the country, his
steward had not been as careful of them as he ought to have been.

Mr. Percy willingly consented to take charge of the papers, but he desired
that, before they were left with him, Buckhurst should take a list of them.

Buckhurst was unprepared for this task.

His head was intent on a ball and on Caroline. However, he was obliged to
undergo this labour; and when he had finished it, Mr. Percy, who happened
to be preparing some new leases of considerable farms, was so busy, in the
midst of his papers, that there was no such thing as touching upon the
subject of the ball. At length the ladies of the family appeared, and all
the parchments were at last out of the way--Buckhurst began upon his real
business, and said he meant to delay going to town a few days longer,
because there was to be a ball early in the ensuing week.--"Nothing more
natural," said Mr. Percy, "than to wish to go to a ball; yet," added he,
gravely, "when a man of honour gives his promise that nothing shall prevent
him from commencing his studies immediately, I did not expect that the
first temptation--"

"Oh! my dear Mr. Percy," said Buckhurst, endeavouring to laugh away the
displeasure, or rather the disappointment which he saw in Mr. Percy's
countenance, "a few days can make no difference."

"Only the difference of a term," said Mr. Percy; "and the difference
between promising and performing. You thought me unjust yesterday, when
I told you that I feared you would prefer present amusement to future
happiness."

"Amusement!" exclaimed Buckhurst, turning suddenly towards Caroline; "do
you imagine _that_ is my object?" Then approaching her, he said in a low
voice, "It is a natural mistake for you to make, Miss Caroline Percy--for
you--who know nothing of love. Amusement! It is not amusement that detains
me--can you think I would stay for a ball, unless I expected to meet you
there?"

"Then I will not go," said Caroline: "it would be coquetry to meet you
there, when, as I thought, I had distinctly explained to you yesterday--"

"Oh! don't repeat that," interrupted Buckhurst: "a lady is never bound to
remember what she said yesterday--especially if it were a cruel sentence; I
hope hereafter you will change your mind--let me live upon hope."

"I will never give any false hopes," said Caroline; "and since I cannot add
to your happiness, I will take care not to diminish it. I will not be the
cause of your breaking your promise to my father: I will not be the means
of tempting you to lower yourself in his opinion--I will not go to this
ball."

Buckhurst smiled, went on with some commonplace raillery about cruelty,
and took his leave, fancying that Caroline could not be in earnest in
her threat, as he called it.--As his disobedience would have the excuse
of _love_, he thought he might venture to transgress the letter of the
promise.

When the time came, he went to the ball, almost certain that Caroline would
break her resolution, as he knew that she had never yet been at a public
assembly, and it was natural that one so sure of being admired would be
anxious to be seen. His surprise and disappointment were great when no
Caroline appeared.

He asked Rosamond if her sister was not well?

"Perfectly well."

"Then why is not she here?"

"Don't you recollect her telling you that she would not come?"

"Yes: but I did not think she was in earnest."

"How little you know of Caroline," replied Rosamond, "if you imagine that
either in trifles, or in matters of consequence, _she_ would say one thing
and do another."

"I feel," said Buckhurst, colouring, "what that emphasis on _she_ means.
But I did not think you would have reproached me so severely. _I thought_
my cousin Rosamond was my friend."

"So I am--but not a friend to your faults."

"Surely it is no great crime in a young man to like going to a ball better
than going to the Temple! But I am really concerned," continued Buckhurst,
"that I have deprived Miss Caroline Percy of the pleasure of being here
to-night--and this was to have been her first appearance in public--I am
quite sorry."

"Caroline is not at all impatient to appear in public; and as to the
pleasure of being at a ball, it costs her little to sacrifice that, or any
pleasure of her own, for the advantage of others."

"When Miss Caroline Percy said something about my falling in her father's
opinion for such a trifle, I could not guess that she was serious."

"She does not," replied Rosamond, "think it a trifle to break a promise."

Buckhurst looked at his watch. "The mail-coach will pass through this town
in an hour. It shall take me to London--Good bye--I will not stay another
moment--I am gone. I wish I had gone yesterday--pray, my dear, good
Rosamond, say so for me to Caroline."

At this moment a beautiful young lady, attended by a large party, entered
the ball-room. Buckhurst stopped to inquire who she was.

"Did you never see my sister before?" replied Colonel Hauton--"Oh! I must
introduce you, and you shall dance with her."

"You do me a great deal of honour--I shall be very happy--that is, I should
be extremely happy--only unfortunately I am under a necessity of setting
off immediately for London--I'm afraid I shall be late for the mail--Good
night."

Buckhurst made an effort, as he spoke, to pass on; but Colonel Hauton
bursting into one of his horse laughs, held him fast by the arm, swore he
must be drunk, for that he did not know what he was saying or doing.

Commissioner Falconer, who now came up, whispered to Buckhurst, "Are you
mad? You can't refuse--you'll affront for ever!"

"I can't help it," said Buckhurst: "I'm sorry for it--I cannot help it."

He still kept on his way towards the door.

"But," expostulated the commissioner, following him out, "you can surely
stay, be introduced, and pay your compliments to the young lady--you are
time enough for the mail. Don't affront people for nothing, who may be of
the greatest use to you."

"But, my dear father, I don't want people to be of use to me."

"Well, at any rate turn back just to see what a charming creature Miss
Hauton is. Such an entre! So much the air of a woman of fashion! every eye
riveted--the whole room in admiration of her!"

"I did not see any thing remarkable about her," said Buckhurst, turning
back to look at her again. "If you think I should affront--I would not
really affront Hauton, who has always been so civil to me--I'll go and be
introduced and pay my compliments, since you say it is necessary; but I
shall not stay five minutes."

Buckhurst returned to be introduced to Miss Hauton. This young lady was
so beautiful that she would, in all probability, have attracted general
attention, even if she had not been the sister of a man of Colonel Hauton's
fortune, and the niece of a nobleman of Lord Oldborough's political
consequence; but undoubtedly these circumstances much increased the power
of her charms over the imaginations of her admirers. All the gentlemen
at this hall were unanimous in declaring that she was a most fascinating
creature. Buckhurst Falconer and Godfrey Percy were introduced to her
nearly at the same time. Godfrey asked her to dance--and Buckhurst could
not help staying to see her. She danced so gracefully, that while he
thought he had stayed only five minutes, he delayed a quarter of an hour.
Many gentlemen were ambitious of the honour of Miss Hauton's hand; but, to
their disappointment, she declined dancing any more; and though Buckhurst
Falconer had determined not to have stayed, nor to dance with her, yet
an undefinable perverse curiosity induced him to delay a few minutes to
determine whether she conversed as well as she danced. The sound of her
voice was sweet and soft, and there was an air of languor in her whole
person and manner, with an apparent indifference to general admiration,
which charmed Godfrey Percy, especially as he perceived, that she could
be animated by his conversation. To Buckhurst's wit she listened with
politeness, but obviously without interest. Buckhurst looked at his watch
again--but it was now too late for the mail. Rosamond was surprised to
see him still in the ball-room. He laid all the blame on his father, and
pleaded that he was detained by parental orders which he could not disobey.
He sat beside Rosamond at supper, and used much eloquence to convince her
that he had obeyed against his will.

In the mean time Godfrey, seated next to his fair partner, became every
moment more and more sensible of the advantages of his situation. Towards
the end of supper, when the buzz of general conversation increased, it
happened that somebody near Miss Hauton spoke of a marriage that was likely
to take place in the fashionable world, and all who thought themselves, or
who wished to be thought good authorities, began to settle _how_ it would
be, and _when_ it would be: but a gentleman of Godfrey's acquaintance, who
sat next to him, said, in a low voice, "It will never be."--"Why?" said
Godfrey.--The gentleman answered in a whisper, "There is an insuperable
objection: the _mother_--don't you recollect?--the mother was a _divorce_;
and no man of sense would venture to marry the daughter--"

"No, certainly," said Godfrey; "I did not know the fact."

He turned, as he finished speaking, to ask Miss Hauton if she would permit
him to help her to something that stood before him; but to his surprise
and alarm he perceived that she was pale, trembling, and scarcely able to
support herself.--He, for the first moment, thought only that she was taken
suddenly ill, and he was going to call Lady Oldborough's attention to her
indisposition--but Miss Hauton stopped him, and said in a low, tremulous
voice--"Take no notice." He then poured out a glass of water, put it within
her reach, turned away in obedience to her wishes, and sat in such a manner
as to screen her from observation. A confused recollection now came across
his mind of his having heard many years ago, when he was a child, of the
divorce of some Lady Anne Hauton, and the truth occurred to him, that this
was Miss Hauton's mother, and that Miss Hauton had overheard the whisper.

In a few moments, anxious to see whether she had recovered, and yet afraid
to distress her by his attention, he half turned his head, and looking down
at her plate, asked if she was better.

"Quite well, thank you."

He then raised his eyes, and looking as unconcernedly as he could,
resumed his former attitude, and began some trifling conversation; but
whatever effort he made to appear the same as before, there was some
constraint, or some difference in his voice and manner, which the young
lady perceived--her voice immediately changed and faltered--he spoke
quickly--both spoke at the same time, without knowing what either said
or what they said themselves--their eyes met, and both were silent--Miss
Hauton blushed deeply. He saw that his conjecture was right, and she
saw, by Godfrey's countenance, that her secret was discovered: her eyes
fell, she grew pale, and instantly fainted. Lady Oldborough came to her
assistance, but she was too helpless a fine lady to be of the least use:
she could only say that it must be the heat of the room, and that she
should faint herself in another moment.

Godfrey whispered to his mother--and Miss Hauton was carried into the open
air. Lady Oldborough and her smelling-bottle followed. Godfrey, leaving the
young lady with them, returned quickly to the supper-room, to prevent any
one from intruding upon her. He met Buckhurst Falconer and Colonel Hauton
at the door, and stopped them with assurances that Miss Hauton had all the
assistance she could want.

"I'll tell you what she wants," cried the Colonel to Buckhurst; "a jaunt to
Cheltenham, which would do her and me, too, a d--d deal of good; for now
the races are over, what the devil shall we do with ourselves here? I'll
rattle Maria off the day after to-morrow in my phaeton. No--Buckhurst, my
good fellow, I'll drive you in the phaeton, and I'll make Lady Oldborough
take Maria in the coach."

Godfrey Percy, who, as he passed, could not avoid hearing this invitation,
did not stay to learn Buckhurst's answer, but went instantly into the room.
No one, not even the gentleman whose whisper had occasioned it, had the
least suspicion of the real cause of Miss Hauton's indisposition. Lady
Oldborough had assigned as the occasion of the young lady's illness "the
heat of the room," and an old medical dowager was eager to establish that
"it was _owing_ to some strawberry ice, as, to her certain knowledge,
ice, in some shape or other, was the cause of most of the mischief in the
world."

Whilst the partizans of heat and ice were still battling, and whilst the
dancers had quite forgotten Miss Hauton, and every thing but themselves,
the young lady returned to the room. Godfrey went to order Mrs. Percy's
carriage, and the Percy family left the ball.

When Godfrey found himself in the carriage with his own family, he began
eagerly to talk of Miss Hauton; he was anxious to know what all and each
thought of her, in general, and in particular: he talked so much of her,
and seemed so much surprised that any body could wish to talk or think of
any thing else, that Mrs. Percy could not help smiling. Mr. Percy, leaning
back in the carriage, said that he felt inclined to sleep.

"To sleep!" repeated Godfrey: "is it possible that you can be sleepy, sir?"

"Very possible, my dear son--it is past four o'clock, I believe."

Godfrey was silent for some minutes, and he began to think over every word
and look that had passed between him and Miss Hauton. He had been only
amused with her conversation, and charmed by her grace and beauty in the
beginning of the evening; but the sensibility she had afterwards shown had
touched him so much, that he was extremely anxious to interest his father
in her favour. He explained the cause of her fainting, and asked whether
she was not much to be pitied. All pitied her--and Godfrey, encouraged
by this pity, went on to prove that she ought not to be blamed for her
mother's faults; that nothing could be more unjust and cruel than to think
ill of the innocent daughter, because her mother had been imprudent.

"But, Godfrey," said Rosamond, "you seem to be answering some one who has
attacked Miss Hauton--whom are you contending with?"

"With himself," said Mr. Percy. "His prudence tells him that the gentleman
was quite right in saying that no man of sense would marry the daughter
of a woman who had conducted herself ill, and yet he wishes to make an
exception to the general rule in favour of pretty Miss Hauton."

"Pretty! My dear father, she is a great deal more than pretty: if she were
only pretty, I should not be so much interested about her. But putting her
quite out of the question, I do not agree with the general principle that
a man should not marry the daughter of a woman who has conducted herself
ill."

"I think you did agree with it till you knew that it applied to Miss
Hauton's case," said Mr. Percy: "as well as I remember, Godfrey, I heard
you once answer on a similar occasion, 'No, no--I will have nothing
to do with any of the daughters of that mother--black cats have black
kittens'--or 'black dogs have black puppies'--I forget which you said."

"Whichever it was, I am ashamed of having quoted such a vulgar proverb,"
said Godfrey.

"It may be a vulgar proverb, but I doubt whether it be a vulgar error,"
said Mr. Percy: "I have great faith in the wisdom of nations. So much so in
the present instance, that I own I would rather a son of mine were to marry
a well-conducted farmer's daughter of _honest parentage_, than the daughter
of an ill-conducted lady of rank or fashion. The farmer's daughter might
be trained into a gentlewoman, and might make my son at least a faithful
wife, which is more than he could expect, or than I should expect, from
the young lady, who had early seen the example of what was bad, and whose
predispositions would be provided with the excuse of the old song."

Godfrey took fire at this, and exclaimed against the injustice of a
doctrine which would render wretched for life many young women who might
possess every amiable and estimable quality, and who could never remedy the
misfortune of their birth. Godfrey urged, that whilst this would render the
good miserable, it would be the most probable means of driving the weak
from despair into vice.

Rosamond eagerly joined her brother's side of the question. Mr. Percy,
though he knew, he said, that he must appear one of the "fathers with
flinty hearts," protested that he felt great compassion for the unfortunate
individuals, as much as a man who was not in love with any of them could
reasonably be expected to feel.

"But now," continued he, "granting that all the consequences which Godfrey
has predicted were to follow from my doctrine, yet I am inclined to believe
that society would, upon the whole, be the gainer by such severity, or, as
I am willing to allow it to be, such apparent injustice. The adherence to
this principle would be the misery, perhaps the ruin, of a few; but would,
I think, tend to the safety and happiness of so many, that the evil would
be nothing in comparison to the good. The certainty of shame descending
to the daughters would be a powerful means of deterring mothers from
ill-conduct; and might probably operate more effectually to restrain
licentiousness in high life than heavy damages, or the now transient
disgrace of public trial and divorce. As to the apparent injustice of
punishing children for the faults of their parents, it should be considered
that in most other cases children suffer discredit more or less for the
faults of their parents of whatever kind; and that, on the other hand, they
enjoy the advantage of the good characters which their parents establish.
This _must_ be so from the necessary effect of experience, and from the
nature of human belief, except in cases where passion operates to destroy
or suspend the power of reason--"

"That is not my case, I assure you, sir," interrupted Godfrey.

Mr. Percy smiled, and continued:--"It appears to me highly advantageous,
that _character_, in general, should descend to posterity as well as riches
or honours, which are, in fact, often the representations, or consequences,
in other forms, of different parts of character--industry, talents,
courage. For instance, in the lower ranks of life, it is a common saying,
that a good name is the richest legacy a woman can leave her daughter. This
idea should be impressed more fully than it is upon the higher classes. At
present, money too frequently forms a compensation for every thing in high
life. It is not uncommon to see the natural daughters of men of rank, or
of large fortune, portioned so magnificently, either with solid gold, or
promised _family protection_, that their origin by the mother's side, and
the character of the mother, are quite forgotten. Can this be advantageous
to good morals? Surely a mother living in open defiance of the virtue of
her sex should not see her illegitimate offspring, instead of being her
shame, become her glory.--On the contrary, nothing could tend more to
prevent the ill conduct of women in high life than the certainty that men
who, from their fortune, birth, and character, might be deemed the most
desirable matches, would shun alliances with the daughters of women of
tainted reputation."

Godfrey eagerly declared his contempt for those men who married for money
or ambition either illegitimate or legitimate daughters. He should be
sorry, he said, to do any thing that would countenance vice, which ought
to be put out of countenance by all means--if possible. But he was not the
guardian of public morals; and even if he were, he should still think it
unjust that the innocent should suffer for the guilty. That for his own
part, if he could put his father's disapprobation out of the question,
he should easily settle his mind, and overcome all objections in a
_prudential_ point of view to marrying an amiable woman who had had the
misfortune to have a worthless mother.

Mrs. Percy had not yet given her opinion--all eyes turned towards her. As
usual, she spoke with persuasive gentleness and good sense; she marked
where each had, in the warmth of argument, said more than they intended,
and she seized the just medium by which all might be conciliated. She
said that she thought the important point to be considered was, what the
_education_ of the daughter had been; on this a prudent man would form his
opinion, not on the mere accident of her birth. He would inquire whether
the girl had lived with the ill-conducted mother--had been in situations
to be influenced by her example, or by that of the company which she kept.
If such had been the case, Mrs. Percy declared she thought it would be
imprudent and wrong to marry the daughter. But if the daughter had been
separated in early childhood from the mother, had never been exposed to the
influence of her example, had, on the contrary, been educated carefully
in strict moral and religious principles, it would be cruel, because
unnecessary, to object to an alliance with such a woman. The objection
would appear inconsistent, as well as unjust, if made by, those who
professed to believe in the unlimited power of education.

Godfrey rubbed his hands with delight--Mr. Percy smiled, and acknowledged
that he was compelled to admit the truth and justice of this statement.

"Pray do you know, Godfrey," said Rosamond, "whether Miss Hauton lived with
her mother, or was educated by her?"

"I cannot tell," said Godfrey; "but I will make it my business to find out.
At all events, my dear mother," continued he, "a child cannot decide by
whom she will be educated. It is not her fault if her childhood be passed
with a mother who is no fit guardian for her."

"I acknowledge," said Mrs. Percy, "that is her misfortune."

"And would you make it an irreparable misfortune?" said Godfrey, in an
expostulatory tone: "my dear mother--only consider."

"My dear son, I do consider," said Mrs. Percy; "but I cannot give up the
point of education. I should be very sorry to see a son of mine married
to a woman who had been in this unfortunate predicament. But," added
Mrs. Percy, after a few minutes' silence, "if from the time her own will
and judgment could be supposed to act, she had chosen for her companions
respectable and amiable persons, and had conducted herself with uniform
propriety and discretion, I think I might be brought to allow of an
exception to my general principle." She looked at Mr. Percy.

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Percy; "exceptions must not merely be allowed,
but will force themselves in favour of superior merit, of extraordinary
excellence, which will rise above every unfavourable circumstance in any
class, in any condition of life in which it may exist, which will throw off
any stigma, however disgraceful, counteract all prepossessions, however
potent, rise against all power of depression--redeem a family--redeem a
race."

"Now, father, you speak like yourself!" cried Godfrey: "this is all I
ask--all I wish."

"And here," continued Mr. Percy, "is an adequate motive for a good and
great mind--yes, _great_--for I believe there are great minds in the female
as well as in the male part of the creation; I say, here is an adequate
motive to excite a woman of a good and great mind to exert herself to
struggle against the misfortunes of her birth."

"For instance," said Rosamond, "my sister Caroline is just the kind of
woman, who, if she had been one of these unfortunate daughters, would have
made herself an exception."

"Very likely," said Mr. Percy, laughing; "but why you should go so far
out of your way to make an unfortunate daughter of poor Caroline, and why
you should picture to yourself, as Dr. Johnson would say, what would be
probable in an impossible situation, I cannot conceive, except for the
pleasure of exercising, as you do upon most occasions, a fine romantic
imagination."

"At all events _I_ am perfectly satisfied," said Godfrey. "Since you admit
of exceptions, sir, I agree with you entirely."

"No, not entirely. I am sure you cannot agree with me entirely, until I
admit Miss Hauton to be one of my exceptions."

"That will come in time, if she deserve it," said Mrs. Percy.

Godfrey thanked his mother with great warmth, and observed, that she was
always the most indulgent of friends.

"But remember my _if_," said Mrs. Percy: "I know nothing of Miss Hauton
at present, except that she is very pretty, and that she has engaging
manners--Do you, my dear Godfrey?"

"Yes, indeed, ma'am, I know a great deal more of her."

"Did you ever see her before this night?"

"Never," said Godfrey.

"And at a ball!" said Mrs. Percy: "you must have wonderful penetration into
character.--But Cupid, though blindfold, can see more at a single glance
than a philosophic eye can discover with the most minute examination."

"But, Cupid out of the question, let me ask you, mother," said Godfrey,
"whether you do not think Miss Hauton has a great deal of sensibility? You
saw that there was no affectation in her fainting."

"None, none," said Mrs. Percy.

"There, father!" cried Godfrey, in an exulting tone; "and sensibility is
the foundation of every thing that is most amiable and charming, of every
grace, of every virtue in woman."

"Yes," said Mr. Percy, "and perhaps of some of their errors and vices.
It depends upon how it is governed, whether sensibility be a curse or a
blessing to its possessor, and to society."

"A curse!" cried Godfrey; "yes, if a woman be doomed--"

"Come, come, my dear Godfrey," interrupted Mr. Percy, "do not let us talk
any more upon the subject just now, because you are too much interested to
reason coolly."

Rosamond then took her turn to talk of what was uppermost in her
thoughts--Buckhurst Falconer, whom she alternately blamed and pitied,
accused and defended; sometimes rejoicing that Caroline had rejected his
suit, sometimes pitying him for his disappointment, and repeating that with
such talents, frankness, and generosity of disposition, it was much to be
regretted that he had not that rectitude of principle, and steadiness of
character, which alone could render him worthy of Caroline. Then passing
from compassion for the son to indignation against the father, she
observed, "that Commissioner Falconer seemed determined to counteract all
that was good in his son's disposition, that he actually did every thing in
his power to encourage Buckhurst in a taste for dissipation, as it seemed
on purpose to keep him in a state of dependence, and to enslave him to the
_great_.

"I hope, with all my heart, I hope," continued Rosamond, "that Buckhurst
will have sense and steadiness enough to refuse; but I heard his father
supporting that foolish Colonel Hauton's persuasions, and urging his poor
son to go with those people to Cheltenham. Now, if once he gets into that
extravagant, dissipated set, he will be ruined for ever!--Adieu to all
hopes of him. He will no more go to the bar than I shall--he will think
of nothing but pleasure; he will run in debt again, and then farewell
principle, and with principle, farewell all hopes of him. But I think he
will have sense and steadiness enough to resist his father, and to refuse
to accompany this profligate patron, Colonel Hauton.--Godfrey, what is your
opinion? Do you think Buckhurst will go?"

"I do not know," replied Godfrey: "in his place I should find it very easy,
but in my own case, I confess, I should feel it difficult, to refuse, if I
were pressed to join a party of pleasure with Miss Hauton."




CHAPTER V.


Godfrey Percy went in the morning to inquire after the health of his fair
partner: this was only a common civility. On his way thither he overtook
and joined a party of gentlemen, who were also going to Clermont-park.
They entered into conversation, and talked of the preceding night--one of
the gentlemen, an elderly man, who had not been at the ball, happened to
be acquainted with Miss Hauton, and with her family. Godfrey heard from
him all the particulars respecting Lady Anne Hauton, and was thrown into
a melancholy reverie by learning that Miss Hauton had been educated by
this mother, and had always lived with her till her ladyship's death,
which happened about two years before this time.--After receiving this
intelligence, Godfrey heard little more of the conversation that passed
till he reached Clermont-park.--A number of young people were assembled
in the music-room practising for a concert.--Miss Hauton was at the
piano-forte when he entered the room: she was sitting with her back to the
door, surrounded by a crowd of amateurs; she did not see him--he stood
behind listening to her singing. Her voice was delightful; but he was
surprised, and not pleased, by the choice of her songs: she was singing,
with some other high-bred young ladies, songs which, to use the gentlest
expression, were rather too _anacreontic_--songs which, though sanctioned
by fashion, were not such as a young lady of taste would prefer, or such
as a man of delicacy would like to hear from his sister or his wife. They
were nevertheless highly applauded by all the audience, except by Godfrey,
who remained silent behind the young lady. In the fluctuation of the crowd
he was pressed nearer and nearer to her chair. As she finished singing a
fashionable air, she heard a sigh from the person behind her.

"That's your favourite, I think?" said she, turning round, and looking up.
"Mr. Percy! I--I thought it was Mr. Falconer." Face, neck, hands, suddenly
blushed: she stooped for a music-book, and searched for some time in that
attitude for she knew not what, whilst all the gentlemen officiously
offered their services, and begged only to know for what book she was
looking.

"Come, come, Maria," cried Colonel Hauton, "what the d---- are you
about?--Can't you give us another of these? You can't be better. Come,
you're keeping Miss Drakelow."

"Go on, Miss Drakelow, if you please, without me."

"Impossible. Come, come, Maria, what the deuce are you at?"

Miss Hauton, afraid to refuse her brother, afraid to provoke the comments
of the company, began to sing, or rather to attempt to sing--her voice
faltered; she cleared her throat, and began again--worse still, she was out
of tune: she affected to laugh. Then, pushing back her chair, she rose,
drew her veil over her face, and said, "I have sung till I have no voice
left.--Does nobody walk this morning?"

"No, no," said Colonel Hauton; "who the deuce would be _bored_ with being
broiled at this time of day? Miss Drakelow--Miss Chatterton, give us some
more music, I beseech you; for I like music better in a morning than at
night--the mornings, when one can't go out, are so confoundedly long and
heavy."

The young ladies played, and Miss Hauton seated herself apart from the
group of musicians, upon a _bergre_, leaning on her hand, in a melancholy
attitude. Buckhurst Falconer followed and sat down beside her, endeavouring
to entertain her with some witty anecdote.

She smiled with effort, listened with painful attention, and the moment the
anecdote was ended, her eyes wandered out of the window. Buckhurst rose,
vacated his seat, and before any of the other gentlemen who had gathered
round could avail themselves of that envied place, Miss Hauton, complaining
of the intolerable heat, removed nearer to the window, to an ottoman,
one half of which was already so fully occupied by a large dog of her
brother's, that she was in no danger from any other intruder. Some of the
gentlemen, who were not blessed with much sagacity, followed, to talk to
her of the beauty of the dog which she was stroking; but to an eulogium
upon its long ears, and even to a quotation from Shakspeare about dewlaps,
she listened with so vacant an air, that her followers gave up the point,
and successively retired, leaving her to her meditations. Godfrey, who had
kept aloof, had in the mean time been looking at some books that lay on a
reading table.--_Maria Hauton_ was written in the first page of several of
them.--All were novels--some French, and some German, of a sort which he
did not like.

"What have you there, Mr. Percy?" said Miss Hauton.--"Nothing worth your
notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels."

"Pardon me, I like some novels very much."

"Which?" said Miss Hauton, rising and approaching the table.

"All that are just representations of life and manners, or of the human
heart," said Godfrey, "provided they are--"

"Ah! the human heart!" interrupted Miss Hauton: "the heart only can
understand the heart--who, in modern times, can describe the human heart?"

"Not to speak of foreigners--Miss Burney--Mrs. Inchbald--Mrs. Opie," said
Godfrey.

"True; and yet I--and yet--" said Miss Hauton, pausing and sighing.

"And yet that was not what I was thinking of," she should have said, had
she finished her sentence with the truth; but this not being convenient,
she left it unfinished, and began a new one, with "Some of these novels are
sad trash--I hope Mr. Godfrey Percy will not judge of my taste by them:
that would be condemning me for the crimes of my bookseller, who will send
us down everything new that comes out."

Godfrey disclaimed the idea of condemning or blaming Miss Hauton's taste:
"he could not," he said, "be so presumptuous, so impertinent."

"So then," said she, "Mr. Godfrey Percy is like all the rest of his sex,
and I must not expect to hear the truth from him."--She paused--and looked
at a print which he was examining.--"I would, however, rather have him
speak severely than think hardly of me."

"He has no right to speak, and certainly no inclination to think hardly of
Miss Hauton," replied Godfrey gravely, but with an emotion which he in vain
endeavoured to suppress. To change the conversation, he asked her opinion
about a figure in the print. She took out her glass, and stooped to look
quite closely at it.--"Before you utterly condemn me," continued she,
speaking in a low voice, "consider how fashion silences one's better taste
and feelings, and how difficult it is when all around one--"

Miss Chatterton, Miss Drakelow, and some officers of their suite came up at
this instant; a deputation, they said, to bring Miss Hauton back, to favour
them with another song, as she must now have recovered her voice.

"No--no--excuse me," said she, smiling languidly; "I beg not to be pressed
any more. I am really not well--I absolutely cannot sing any more this
morning. I have already sung so much--_too much_," added she, when the
deputation had retired, so that the last words could be heard only by him
for whom they were intended.

Though Miss Hauton's apologizing thus for her conduct, and making a
young gentleman, with whom she was but just acquainted, the judge of her
actions, might be deemed a still farther proof of her indiscretion, yet
the condescension was so flattering, and it appeared such an instance of
ingenuous disposition, that Godfrey was sensibly touched by it. He followed
the fair Maria to her ottoman, from which she banished Pompey the Great, to
make room for him. The recollection of his father's warning words, however,
came across Godfrey's mind; he bowed an answer to a motion that invited him
to the dangerous seat, and continued standing with an air of safe respect.

"I hope you will have the goodness to express to Mrs. Percy how much I
felt her kindness to me last night, when--when I wanted it so much. There
is something so soothing, so gentle, so indulgent about Mrs. Percy, so
_loveable!_"

"She is very good, very indulgent, indeed," said Godfrey, in a tone of
strong affection,--"very _loveable_--that is the exact word."

"I fear it is not English," said Miss Hauton.

"_Il mrite bien de l'tre_," said Godfrey.

A profound silence ensued.--Colonel Hauton came up to this pair, while they
were still silent, and with their eyes fixed upon the ground.

"D----d agreeable you two seem," cried the colonel.--"Buckhurst, you have
always so much to say for yourself, do help your cousin here: I'm sure I
know how to pity him, for many a time the morning after a ball, I've been
with my partner in just as bad a quandary--without a word to throw to a
dog."

"Impossible, surely, colonel, when you had such a fine animal as this,"
said Godfrey, caressing Pompey, who lay at his feet. "Where did you get
this handsome dog?"

The colonel then entered into the history of Pompey the Great. "I was
speaking," said Miss Hauton, "to Mr. Godfrey Percy of his family--relations
of yours, Mr. Falconer, are not they? He has another sister, I think, some
one told me, a beautiful sister, Caroline, who was not at the ball last
night?"

"Yes," said Buckhurst, who looked at this instant also to the dog for
assistance--"Pompey!--Pompey!--poor fellow!"

"Is Miss Caroline Percy like her mother?"

"No."

"Like her father--or her brother?"

"Not particularly--Will you honour me with any commands for town?--Colonel,
have you any?--I'm just going off with Major Clay," said Buckhurst.

"Not you, indeed," cried the colonel; "your father has made you over to me,
and I won't give you leave of absence, my good fellow.--You're under orders
for Cheltenham to-morrow, my boy--No reply, sir--no arguing with your
commanding officer. You've no more to do, but to tell Clay to go without
you."

"And now," continued the colonel, returning to Godfrey Percy, after
Buckhurst had left the room, "what hinders you from making one of our
party? You can't do better. There's Maria and Lady Oldborough were both
wishing it at breakfast--Maria, can't you say something?"

Maria's eyes said more than the colonel could have said, if he had spoken
for ever.

"But perhaps Mr. Godfrey Percy may have other engagements," said she, with
a timid persuasive tone, which Godfrey found it extremely difficult to
resist.

"Bellamy! where the d----l do you come from?--Very glad to see you, faith!"
cried the colonel, going forward to shake hands with a very handsome man,
who had just then entered the room. "Maria," said Colonel Hauton, turning
to his sister, "don't you know Bellamy?--Bellamy," repeated he, coming
close to her, whilst the gentleman was paying his compliments to Lady
Oldborough, "Captain Bellamy, with whom you used to waltz every night, you
know, at--what's the name of the woman's?"

"I never waltzed with him but once--or twice, that I remember," said Miss
Hauton, "and then because you insisted upon it."

"I!--Well, I did very right if I did, because you were keeping all the
world waiting, and I knew you intended to do it at last--so I thought you
might as well do it at first. But I don't know what's the matter with you
this morning--we must drive a little spirit into you at Cheltenham."

Captain Bellamy came up to pay his respects, or rather his compliments, to
Miss Hauton: there was no respect in his manner, but the confidence of one
who had been accustomed to be well received.

"She has not been well--fainted last night at a ball--is _hipped_
this morning; but we'll get her spirits up again when we have her at
Cheltenham--We shall be a famous dashing party! I have been beating up for
recruits all day--here's one," said Colonel Hauton, turning to Godfrey
Percy.

"Excuse me," said Godfrey, "I am engaged--I am obliged to join my regiment
immediately." He bowed gravely to Miss Hauton--wished her a good morning;
and, without trusting himself to another look, retreated, saying to
himself,

  "Sir, she's yours--You have brushed from the grape its soft blue;
  From the rosebud you've shaken its tremulous dew:
  What you've touched you may take.--Pretty waltzer, adieu!"

From this moment he mentioned Miss Hauton's name no more in his own family.
His whole mind now seemed, and not only seemed, but was, full of military
thoughts. So quickly in youth do different and opposite trains of ideas and
emotions succeed to each other; and so easy it is, by a timely exercise
of reason and self-command, to prevent a _fancy_ from becoming a passion.
Perhaps, if his own happiness alone had been in question, Godfrey might not
have shown precisely the same prudence; but on this occasion his generosity
and honour assisted his discretion. He plainly saw that Miss Hauton was
not exactly a woman whom he could wish to make his wife--and he was too
honourable to trifle with her affections. He was not such a coxcomb as to
imagine that, in the course of so slight an acquaintance, he could have
made any serious impression on this young lady's heart: yet he could not
but perceive that she had distinguished him from the first hour he was
introduced to her; and he was aware that, with her extreme sensibility, and
an unoccupied imagination, she might rapidly form for him an attachment
that might lead to mutual misery.

Mr. Percy rejoiced in his son's honourable conduct, and he was particularly
pleased by Godfrey's determining to join his regiment immediately. Mr.
Percy thought it advantageous for the eldest son of a man of fortune to be
absent for some years from his home, from his father's estate, tenants, and
dependents, to see something of the world, to learn to estimate himself
and others, and thus to have means of becoming a really respectable,
enlightened, and useful country gentleman--not one of those booby squires,
born only to consume the fruits of the earth, who spend their lives in
coursing, shooting, hunting, carousing [Footnote: See an eloquent address
to country gentlemen, in Young's Annals of Agriculture, vol. i., last
page.], "who eat, drink, sleep, die, and rot in oblivion." He thought it
in these times the duty of every young heir to serve a few years, that he
might be as able, as willing, to join in the defence of his country, if
necessary. Godfrey went, perhaps, beyond his father's ideas upon this
subject, for he had an ardent desire to go into the army as a profession,
and almost regretted that his being an eldest son might induce him to
forego it after a few campaigns.

Godfrey did not enter into the army from the puerile vanity of wearing a
red coat and an epaulette; nor to save himself the trouble of pursuing his
studies; nor because he thought the army a _good lounge_, or a happy escape
from parental control; nor yet did he consider the military profession as a
mercenary speculation, in which he was to calculate the chance of getting
_into the shoes_, or over the head, of Lieutenant A---- or Captain B----.
He had higher objects; he had a noble ambition to distinguish himself. Not
in mere technical phrase, or to grace a bumper toast, but in truth, and
as a governing principle of action, he felt zeal for the interests of the
service. Yet Godfrey was not without faults; and of these his parents, fond
as they were of him, were well aware.

Mrs. Percy, in particular, felt much anxiety, when the moment fixed for
his departure approached; when she considered that he was now to mix with
companions very different from those with whom he had hitherto associated,
and to be placed in a situation where calmness of temper and prudence would
be more requisite than military courage or generosity of disposition.

"Well, my dear mother," cried Godfrey, when he came to take leave, "fare
you well: if I live, I hope I shall distinguish myself; and if I fall--

  'How sleep the brave, who sink to rest!'"

"God bless you, my dear son!" said his mother. She seemed to have much
more to say, but, unable at that moment to express it, she turned to her
husband, who knew all she thought and felt.

"My dear Godfrey," said his father, "I have never troubled you with much
advice; but now you are going from me, let me advise you to take care that
the same enthusiasm which makes you think your own country the best country
upon earth, your own family the best family in that country, and your own
regiment the best regiment in the service, all which is becoming a good
patriot, a good son, and a good soldier, should go a step--a dangerous step
farther, and should degenerate into party spirit, or what the French call
_esprit-de-corps_."

"The French!" cried Godfrey. "Oh! hang the French! Never mind what the
French call it, sir."

"And degenerating into party-spirit, or what is called _esprit-de-corps_,"
resumed Mr. Percy, smiling, "should, in spite of your more enlarged views
of the military art and science, and your knowledge of all that Alexander
and Csar, and Marshal Saxe and Turenne, and the Duke of Marlborough and
Lord Peterborough, ever said or did, persuade you to believe that your
brother officers, whoever they may be, are the greatest men that ever
existed, and that their opinions should rule the world, or at least should
govern you."

"More than all the rest, I fear, my dear Godfrey," interposed Mrs. Percy,
"that, when you do not find the world so good as you imagine it to be, you
will, by quarrelling with it directly, make it worse to you than it really
is. But if you discover that merit is not always immediately rewarded or
promoted, do not let your indignation, and--shall I say it--impatience
of spirit, excite you to offend your superiors in station, and, by these
means, retard your own advancement."

"Surely, if I should be treated with injustice, you would not have me bear
it patiently?" cried Godfrey, turning quickly.

"In the first place, stay till it happens before you take fire," said his
father; "and, in the next place, remember that patience, and deference to
his superiors, form an indispensable part of a young soldier's merit."

"Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Percy, looking up at her son anxiously, "if, even
at this instant, even with us, even at the bare imagination of injustice,
you take offence, I fear--I very much fear--" said she, laying her hand
upon his arm.

"My dearest mother," said Godfrey, in a softened tone, taking his mother's
hand in the most respectful and tender manner, "fear nothing for me. I will
be as patient as a lamb, rather than be a source of anxiety to you."

"And now, my good friends, fare ye well!" said Godfrey, turning to take
leave of his sisters.

The young soldier departed. His last words, as he got upon his horse, were
to Caroline. "Caroline, you will be married before I return."

But to descend to the common affairs of life. Whilst all these visits and
balls, coquettings and separations, had been going on, the Dutch carpenters
had been repairing the wreck; and, from time to time, complaints had been
made of them by Mr. Percy's old steward. The careful steward's indignation
was first excited by their forgetting every night to lock a certain gate,
with the key of which they had been entrusted. Then they had wasted his
master's timber, and various tools were missing--they had been twice as
long as they ought to have been in finishing their work, and now, when the
wind was fair, the whole ship's crew impatient to sail, and not above half
a day's work wanting, the carpenters were smoking and drinking, instead
of putting their hands to the business. The Dutch carpenter, who was
at this moment more than half intoxicated, answered the steward's just
reproaches with much insolence. Mr. Percy, feeling that his hospitality
and good-nature were encroached upon and abused, declared that he would no
longer permit the Dutchmen to have the use of his house, and ordered his
steward to see that they quitted it immediately.

These men, and all belonging to them, consequently left the place in a
few hours; whatever remained to be done to the vessel was finished that
evening, and she sailed, to the great joy of her whole crew, and of Mr.
Percy's steward, who, when he brought the news of this event to his master,
protested that he was as glad as if any body had given him twenty golden
guineas, that he had at last got safely rid of these ill-mannered drunken
fellows, who, after all his master had done for them, never so much
as said, "thank you," and who had wasted and spoiled more by their
carelessness than their heads were worth.

Alas! he little knew at that moment how much more his master was to lose by
their carelessness, and he rejoiced too soon at having got _rid_ of them.

In the middle of the night the family were alarmed by the cry of fire!--A
fire had broken out in the outhouse, which had been lent to the Dutchmen;
before it was discovered, the roof was in a blaze; the wind unfortunately
blew towards a hay-rick, which was soon in flames, and the burning hay
spread the fire to a considerable distance, till it caught the veranda at
the east wing of the dwelling-house. One of the servants, who slept in that
part of the house, was awakened by the light from the burning veranda, but
by the time the alarm was given, and before the family could get out of
their rooms, the flames had reached Mr. Percy's study, which contained his
most valuable papers. Mr. Percy, whose voice all his family, in the midst
of their terror and confusion, obeyed, directed with great presence of
mind what should be done by each. He sent one to open a cistern of water
at the top of the house, and to let it flow over the roof, another to tear
down the trellis next the part that was on fire; others he despatched for
barrows-full of wet mortar from a heap which was in a back yard near the
house; others he stationed in readiness to throw the mortar where it was
most needful to extinguish the flames, or to prevent their communicating
with the rest of the building. He went himself to the place where the fire
raged with the greatest violence, whilst his wife and daughters were giving
out from the study the valuable papers, which, as he directed, were thrown
in one heap on the lawn, at a sufficient distance from the house to prevent
any danger of their being burnt--most of them were in tin cases that were
easily removed--the loose papers and books were put into baskets, and
covered with wet blankets, so that the pieces of the burning trellis,
which fell upon them as they were carried out, did them no injury. It was
wonderful with what silence, order, and despatch, this went on whilst three
females, instead of shrieking and fainting, combined to do what was useful
and prudent. In spite of all Mr. Percy's exertions, however, the flames
burst in from the burning trellis through one of the windows of the study,
before the men could tear down the shutters and architraves, as he had
ordered. The fire caught the wood-work, and ran along the book-shelves on
one side of the wall with terrible rapidity, so that the whole room was,
in a few minutes, in a blaze--they were forced to leave it before they had
carried out many of the books. Some old papers remained in the presses,
supposed to be duplicates, and of no consequence. This whole wing of
the house they were obliged to abandon to the flames, but the fire was
stopped in its progress at last, and the principal part of the mansion was
preserved by wet mortar, according to Mr. Percy's judicious order, by the
prompt obedience, and by the unanimity, of all who assisted.

The next morning the family saw the melancholy spectacle of a heap of ruins
in the place of that library which they all loved so much. However, it was
their disposition to make the best of misfortunes; instead of deploring
what they had lost, they rejoiced in having suffered so little and saved so
much. They particularly rejoiced that no lives had been sacrificed;--Mr.
Percy declared, that for his own part, he would willingly undergo much
greater pecuniary loss, to have had the satisfaction of seeing in all his
family so much presence of mind, and so much freedom from selfishness, as
they had shown upon this occasion.

When he said something of this sort before his servants, who were all
assembled, it was observed that one of them, a very old nurse, looked
immediately at Caroline, then lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, in
silent gratitude. Upon inquiry it appeared, that in the confusion and
terror, when the alarm had first been raised, the nurse had been forgotten,
or it had been taken for granted that she had gone home to her own cottage
the preceding evening.

Caroline, however, recollected her, and ran to her room, which was in the
attic story over the library.

When Caroline opened the door she could scarcely see the bed.--She made
her way to it, however, got old Martha out of the room, and with great
difficulty brought the bewildered, decrepit creature, safely down a small
staircase, which the flames had not then reached.--Nothing could exceed her
gratitude; with eyes streaming with tears, and a head shaking with strong
emotion, she delighted in relating all these circumstances, and declared
that none but Miss Caroline could have persuaded her to go down that
staircase, when she saw all below in flames.

Mr. Percy's first care was to look over his papers, to see whether any were
missing.--To his consternation, one valuable deed, a deed by which he held
the whole Percy estate, was nowhere to be found. He had particular reason
for being alarmed by the loss of this paper.--The heir-at-law to this
estate had long been lying in wait to make an attack upon him.--Aware of
this, Mr. Percy took all prudent means to conceal the loss of this paper,
and he cautioned his whole family never to mention it.

It happened about this time, that a poor old man, to whom Buckhurst
Falconer had given that puppy which his brother John had so bitterly
regretted, came to Mr. Percy to complain that the dog had brought him into
great trouble. The puppy had grown into a dog, and of this the old man had
forgotten to give notice to the tax-gatherer. Mr. Percy perceiving clearly
that the man had no design to defraud, and pitying him for having thus, by
his ignorance or carelessness, subjected himself to the heavy penalty of
ten pounds, which, without selling his only cow, he was unable to pay,
advised him to state the simple fact in a petition, and Mr. Percy promised
to transmit this petition to government, with a memorial against the
tax-gatherer, who had been accused, in many instances, of oppressive and
corrupt conduct. He had hitherto defied all complainants, because he was
armed strong in law by an attorney who was his near relation--an attorney
of the name of Sharpe, whose cunning and skill in the doubles and mazes of
his profession, and whose active and vindictive temper had rendered him the
terror of the neighbourhood. Not only the poor but the rich feared him,
for he never failed to devise means of revenging himself wherever he was
offended. He one morning waited on Mr. Percy, to speak to him about the
memorial, which, he understood, Mr. Percy was drawing up against Mr. Bates,
the tax-gatherer.

"Perhaps, Mr. Percy," said he, "you don't know that Mr. Bates is my near
relation?"

Mr. Percy replied, that he had not known it; but that now that he did, he
could not perceive how that altered the business; as he interfered, not
from any private motive, but from a sense of public justice, which made him
desire to remove a person from a situation for which he had shown himself
utterly unfit.

Mr. Sharpe smiled a malicious smile, and declared that, for his part, he
did not pretend to be a reformer of abuses: he thought, in the present
times, that gentlemen who wished well to their king and the peace of the
country ought not to be forward to lend their names to popular discontents,
and should not embarrass government with petty complaints. Gentlemen could
never foresee where such things would end, and therefore, in the _existing
circumstances_, they ought surely to endeavour to strengthen, instead of
weakening, the hands of government.

To this commonplace _cant_, by which all sorts of corruption and all public
delinquents might be screened, and by which selfishness and fraud hope to
pass for loyalty and love of the peace of the country, Mr. Percy did not
attempt, or rather did not deign, any reply.

Mr. Sharpe then insinuated that Lord Oldborough, who had put Bates into
his present situation, would be displeased by a complaint against him. Mr.
Sharpe observed, that Lord Oldborough was remarkable for standing steadily
by all the persons whom he appointed, and that, if Mr. Percy persisted
in this attack, he would probably not find himself thanked by his own
relations, the Falconers.

This hint produced no effect: so at last Mr. Sharpe concluded, by saying,
with an air of prodigious legal assurance, that for his own part he was
quite at ease about the result of the affair, for he was confident that,
when the matter came to be properly inquired into, and the witnesses to be
cross-examined, no malpractices could be brought home to his relation.

Then Mr. Percy observed, that a memorial, praying to have the circumstances
inquired into, could be no disadvantage to Mr. Bates, but the contrary, as
it would tend to prove his innocence publicly, and to remove the prejudice
which now subsisted against him.--Mr. Percy, who had the memorial at this
time in his hand, deliberately folded it up, and directed it.

"Then, sir," cried Mr. Sharpe, put off his guard by anger, "since you are
determined to throw away the scabbard, you cannot be surprised if I do the
same."

Mr. Percy, smiling, said that he feared no sword but the sword of justice,
which could not fall on his head, while he was doing what was just. As he
spoke, he prepared to seal the memorial.

Mr. Sharpe's habitual caution recurring in the space of a second or two, he
begged pardon if zeal for his relation had hurried him into any unbecoming
warmth of expression, and stretching out his hand eagerly to stop Mr.
Percy, as he was going to press down the seal, "Give me leave, sir," said
he, "give me leave to run my eye over that memorial--may I beg? before you
seal it."

"And welcome," said Mr. Percy, putting the paper into his hand: "all that I
do shall be done openly and fairly."

The attorney took possession of the memorial, and began to con it over. As
he was reading it, he happened to stand in a recessed window, so that he
could not easily be seen by any person who entered the room: at this moment
Rosamond came in suddenly, exclaiming, as she held up a huge unfolded
parchment, "I've found it!--I've found it, my dear father!--I do believe
this is Sir John Percy's deed that was lost!--I always said it was not
burned.--What's the matter?--What do you mean?--Nobody can hear me? the
outer door is shut--Perhaps this is only a copy.--It is not signed or
sealed, but I suppose--"

Here she stopped short, for she saw Mr. Sharpe--She looked so much
astounded, that even if he had not heard all she had said, her countenance
would have excited his curiosity. The attorney had heard every syllable
she had uttered, and he knew enough of Mr. Percy's affairs to comprehend
the full extent of the advantage that might be made of this discovery.
He coolly returned the memorial, acknowledging that it was drawn up with
much moderation and ability, but regretting that Mr. Percy should think it
necessary to send it; and concluding with a few general expressions of the
regard he had always felt for the family, he took his leave.

"All is safe!" cried Rosamond, as soon as she heard the house door shut
after he was gone. "All is safe, thank Heaven!--for that man's head was
luckily so full of this memorial, that he never heard one word I said."

Mr. Percy was of a different opinion: he was persuaded that the attorney
would not neglect so fine an opportunity of revenge. Sharpe had formerly
been employed in suits of Sir Robert Percy, the heir-at-law. Here was now
the promise of a lawsuit, that would at all events put a great deal of
money into the pockets of the lawyers, and a considerable gratuity would be
ensured to the person who should first inform Sir Robert of the loss of the
important conveyance.

Mr. Percy's opinion of the revengeful nature of Sharpe, and his perception
that he was in the solicitor's power, did not, however, make any change in
his resolution about the memorial.--It was sent, and Bates was turned out
of his office. For some time nothing more was heard of Mr. Sharpe.--Mr.
Percy, for many months afterward, was busied in rebuilding that part of
his house which had been destroyed by the fire; and as he was naturally
of a sanguine temper, little inclined to occupy himself with cabals and
quarrels, the transaction concerning Bates, and even the attorney's threat
of throwing away the scabbard, passed from his mind. The family pursued
the happy tenour of their lives, without remembering that there was such a
being as Mr. Solicitor Sharpe.




CHAPTER VI.


At the time of the fire at Percy-hall, a painted glass window in the
passage--we should say the gallery--leading to the study had been
destroyed.--Old Martha, whose life Caroline had saved, had a son, who
possessed some talents as a painter, and who had learnt the art of painting
on glass. He had been early in his life assisted by the Percy family,
and, desirous to offer some small testimony of his gratitude, he begged
permission to paint a new window for the gallery.--He chose for his subject
the fire, and the moment when Caroline was assisting his decrepit mother
down the dangerous staircase.--The painting was finished unknown to
Caroline, and put up on her birthday, when she had just attained her
eighteenth year. This was the only circumstance worth recording which the
biographer can find noted in the family annals at this period. In this
dearth of events, may we take the liberty of introducing, according to
the fashion of modern biography, a few private letters? They are written
by persons of whom the reader as yet knows nothing--Mr. Percy's second
and third sons, Alfred and Erasmus. Alfred was a barrister; Erasmus a
physician: they were both at this time in London, just commencing their
professional career. Their characters--but let their characters speak
for themselves in their letters, else neither their letters nor their
characters can be worth attention.


ALFRED PERCY TO HIS FATHER.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"Thank you for the books--I have been reading hard lately, for I have
still, alas! leisure enough to read. I cannot expect to be employed, or to
have _fees_ for some time to come. I am armed with patience--I am told that
I have got through the worst part of my profession, the reading of dry law.
This is tiresome enough, to be sure; but I think the courting of attorneys
and solicitors is the worst part of the beginning of my profession: for
this I was not, and I believe I never shall be, sufficiently prepared. I
give them no dinners, and they neglect me; yet I hope I pay them proper
attention. To make amends, however, I have been so fortunate as to form
acquaintance with some gentlemen of the bar, who possess enlarged minds and
general knowledge: their conversation is of the greatest use and pleasure
to me. But many barristers here are men who live entirely among themselves,
with their heads in their green bags, and their souls narrowed to a point:
mere machines for drawing pleas and rejoinders.

"I remember Burke asserts (and I was once, with true professional
party-spirit, angry with him for the assertion) that the study of the law
has a contractile power on the mind; I am now convinced it has, from what
I see, and what I feel; therefore I will do all I can to counteract this
contraction by the expansive force of literature. I lose no opportunity
of making acquaintance with literary men, and cultivating their society.
The other day, at Hookham's library, I met with a man of considerable
talents--a Mr. Temple: he was looking for a passage in the life of the
lord-keeper Guildford, which I happened to know. This brought us into a
conversation, with which we were mutually so well pleased, that we agreed
to dine together, for further information--and we soon knew all that was to
be known of each other's history.

"Temple is of a very good family, though the younger son of a younger
brother. He was brought up by his grandfather, with whom he was a
favourite. Accustomed, from his childhood, to live with the rich and great,
to see a grand establishment, to be waited upon, to have servants, horses,
carriages at his command, and always to consider himself as a part of a
family who possessed every thing they could wish for in life; he says, he
almost forgot, or rather never thought of the time when he was to have
nothing, and when he should be obliged to provide entirely for himself.
Fortunately for him, his grandfather having early discerned that he had
considerable talents, determined that he should have all the advantages of
education, which he thought would prepare him to shine in parliament.--His
grandfather, however, died when Temple was yet scarcely eighteen.--He had
put off writing a codicil to his will, by which Temple lost the provision
intended for him.--All hopes of being brought into parliament were over.
His uncle, who succeeded to the estate, had sons of his own. There were
family jealousies, and young Temple, as having been a favourite, was
disliked.--Promises were made by other relations, and by former friends,
and by these he was amused and misled for some time; but he found he was
only wasting his life, attending upon these great relations. The unkindness
and falsehood of some, and the haughty neglect of others, hurt his high
spirit, and roused his strong indignation. He, in his turn, neglected
and offended, was cast off at last, or forgotten by most of the fine
promisers.--At which, he says, he has had reason to rejoice, for this threw
him upon his own resources, and made him exert his own mind.--He applied,
in earnest, to prepare himself for the profession for which he was best
fitted, and went to the bar.--Now comes the part of his history for which
he, with reason, blames himself. He was disgusted, not so much by the
labour, as by the many disagreeable circumstances, which necessarily occur
in the beginning of a barrister's course.--He could not bear the waiting
in the courts, or on circuit, without business, without notice. He thought
his merit would never make its way, and was provoked by seeing two or three
stupid fellows pushed on by solicitors, or helped up by judges.--He had so
much knowledge, talent, and eloquence, that he must in time have made a
great figure, and would, undoubtedly, have risen to the first dignities,
had he persevered; but he sacrificed himself to pique and impatience. He
quitted the bar, and the very summer after he had left it, the illness of a
senior counsel on that circuit afforded an opportunity where Temple would
have been called upon, and where he could fully have displayed his talents.
Once known, such a man would have been always distinguished.--He now
bitterly regrets that he abandoned his profession.--This imprudence gave
his friends a fair excuse for casting him off; but, he says, their neglect
grieves him not, for he had resolved never more to trust to their promises,
or to stoop to apply to them for patronage. He has been these last two
years in an obscure garret writing for bread. He says, however, that he is
sure he is happier, even in this situation, than are some of his cousins
at this instant, who are struggling in poverty to be genteel, or to keep
up a family name, and he would not change places with those who are in a
state of idle and opprobrious dependence. I understand (remember, this
is a secret between ourselves)--I understand that _Secretary_ Cunningham
Falconer has found him out, and makes _good use of his pen_, but pays
him shabbily. Temple is too much of a man of honour to _peach_. So Lord
Oldborough knows nothing of the matter; and Cunningham gets half his
business done, and supplies all his deficiencies, by means of this poor
drudging genius. Perhaps I have tired you with this history of my new
friend; but he has interested me extremely:--he has faults certainly,
perhaps too high a spirit, too much sensibility; but he has such strict
integrity, so much generosity of mind, and something so engaging in his
manners, that I cannot help loving, admiring, and pitying him--that last
sentiment, however, I am obliged to conceal, for he would not bear it.

"I see very little of Erasmus. He has been in the country this fortnight
with some patient. I long for his return.--I will make the inquiries you
desire about Buckhurst Falconer.

"Your affectionate son,

"ALFRED PERCY.

"P.S. Yes, my dear Rosamond, I _shall_ be obliged to you for the
flower-roots for my landlady's daughter."


LETTER FROM ERASMUS TO HIS FATHER.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"Pray do not feel disappointed when I tell you that I am not getting
on quite so fast as I expected. I assure you, however, that I have not
neglected any honourable means of bringing myself into notice. But it is
very difficult for a young man to rise without puffing, or using low means.

"I met Lady Jane Granville a few days ago. She gave me a note to Sir Amyas
Courtney, a fashionable physician and a great favourite of hers.--She told
me that he had formerly been acquainted with some of my family, and she so
strongly urged me to wait upon him, that to avoid offending her ladyship, I
promised to avail myself of her introduction.

"I called several times before I found Sir Amyas at home. At last, by
appointment, I went to breakfast with him one morning when he was confined
to the house by an _influenza_. He received me in the most courteous
manner--recollected to have danced with my mother years ago, at a ball
at Lord Somebody's--professed the greatest respect for the name of
Percy--asked me various questions about my grandfather, which I could not
answer, and paid you more compliments than I can remember. Sir Amyas is
certainly the prettiest behaved physician breathing, with the sweetest
assortment of tittle-tattle, with an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and
compliments for the great, and an intimate acquaintance with the fair and
fashionable. He has also the happiest art of speaking a vast deal, and
yet saying nothing; seeming to give an opinion, without ever committing
himself.--The address with which he avoids contested points of science, and
the art with which he displays his superficial knowledge, and conceals his
want of depth, is truly amusing. He slid away from science as soon as he
could, to politics, where he kept safe in commonplace newspaper-phrases;
and in the happy persuasion that every thing is for the best, and that
every man in power, let him be of what party he may, can do no wrong. He
did not seem quite satisfied with my countenance as he spoke, and once or
twice paused for my acquiescence--in vain.

"We were interrupted by the entrance of a Mr. Gresham, a rich merchant,
who came to look at a picture which Sir Amyas shows as a true Titian.
Mr. Gresham spoke, as I thought, with much good sense and taste about
it, and Sir Amyas talked a great deal of amateur-nonsense. Still in the
same namby-pamby style, and with the same soft voice and sweet smile,
Sir Amyas talked on of pictures and battles, and carnage and levees, and
drawing-rooms and balls, and butterflies.--He has a museum for the ladies,
and he took me to look at it.--Sad was the hour and luckless was the
day!--Among his shells was one upon which he peculiarly prided himself,
and which he showed me as an unique. I was, I assure you, prudently silent
till he pressed for my opinion, and then I could not avoid confessing that
I suspected it to be a _made_ shell--_made_, Caroline knows how, by the
application of acids. The countenance of Sir Amyas clouded over, and I saw
that I at this moment lost all chance of his future favour. He made me some
fine speeches, when I was going away, and dwelt upon his great desire to
oblige any friend of Lady Jane Granville's.

"A few days afterwards, I saw her ladyship again, and found, by her manner,
that she had not been satisfied by Sir Amyas Courtney's report of me. She
pressed me to tell her all that had passed between us. She was provoked by
my imprudence, as she called it, about the shell, and exhorted me to repair
it by future attentions and complaisance. When I declined paying court to
Sir Amyas, as inconsistent with my ideas and feelings of independence, her
ladyship grew angry--said that my father had inspired all his sons with
absurd notions of independence, which would prevent their rising in the
world, or succeeding in any profession. I believe I then grew warm in
defence of my father and myself. The conclusion of the whole was, that we
remained of our own opinions, and that her ladyship protested she would
never more attempt to serve us. Alfred has called since on Lady Jane, but
has not been admitted. I am sorry that I too have offended her, for I
really like her, and am grateful for her kindness, but I cannot court her
patronage, nor bend to her idol, Sir Amyas.--

"Your affectionate son,

"ERASMUS PERCY."


LETTER FROM ERASMUS PERCY TO HIS FATHER.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"I told you in my last how I lost all hopes of favour from Sir Amyas
Courtney, and how determined I was not to bend to him.--On some occasion
soon afterwards this determination appeared, and recommended me immediately
to the notice of a certain Dr. Frumpton, who is the antagonist and sworn
foe to Sir Amyas.--Do you know who Dr. Frumpton is--and who he was--and how
he has risen to his present height?

"He was a farrier in a remote county: he began by persuading the country
people in his neighbourhood that he had a specific for the bite of a mad
dog.

"It happened that he cured an old dowager's favourite waiting-maid who had
been bitten by a cross lap-dog, which her servants pronounced to be mad,
that they might have an excuse for hanging it.

"The fame of this cure was spread by the dowager among her numerous
acquaintance in town and country.

"Then he took agues--and afterwards scrofula--under his protection;
patronized by his old dowager, and lucky in some of his desperate quackery,
Dr. Frumpton's reputation rapidly increased, and from different counties
fools came to consult him. His manners were bearish even to persons of
quality who resorted to his den; but these brutal manners _imposed_ upon
many, heightened the idea of his confidence in himself, and commanded the
submission of the timid.--His tone grew higher and higher, and he more and
more easily bullied the credulity of man and woman-kind.--It seems that
either extreme of soft and polished, or of rough and brutal manner, can
succeed with certain physicians.--_Dr._ Frumpton's name, and Dr. Frumpton's
wonderful cures, were in every newspaper, and in every shop-window. No
man ever puffed himself better even in this puffing age.--His success
was viewed with scornful yet with jealous eyes by the regularly bred
physicians, and they did all they could to keep him down--Sir Amyas
Courtney, in particular, who would never call him any thing but _that
farrier_, making what noise he could about Frumpton's practising without
a diploma. In pure spite, Frumpton took to learning--late as it was, he
put himself to school--with virulent zeal he read and _crammed_ till,
Heaven knows how! he accomplished getting a diploma--stood all prescribed
examinations, and has grinned defiance ever since at Sir Amyas.

"Frumpton, delighted with the story of the _made shell_, and conceiving
me to be the enemy of his enemy, resolved, as he declared, to take me
by the hand; and, such is the magical deception of self-love, that his
apparent friendliness towards me made him appear quite agreeable, and
notwithstanding all that I had heard and known of him, I fancied his
brutality was frankness, and his presumption strength of character.--I
gave him credit especially for a happy instinct for true merit, and an
honourable antipathy to flattery and meanness.--The manner in which he
pronounced the words, _fawning puppy!_ applied to Sir Amyas Courtney,
pleased me peculiarly--and I had just exalted Frumpton into a great man,
and an original genius, when he fell flat to the level, and below the level
of common mortals.

"It happened, as I was walking home with him, we were stopped in the street
by a crowd, which had gathered round a poor man, who had fallen from a
scaffold, and had broken his leg. Dr. Frumpton immediately said, 'Send for
Bland, the surgeon, who lives at the corner of the street.' The poor man
was carried into a shop; we followed him. I found that his leg, besides
being broken, was terribly bruised and cut. The surgeon in a few minutes
arrived. Mr. Bland, it seems, is a _protg_ of Frumpton's, who formerly
practised human farriery under him.

"Mr. Bland, after slightly looking at it, said, 'the leg must come off,
the sooner the better.' The man, perceiving that I pitied him, cast such
a beseeching look at me, as made me interpose, impertinently perhaps, but
I could not resist it. I forget what I said; but I know the sense of it
was, that I thought the poor fellow's leg could and ought to be saved.--I
remember Dr. Frumpton glared upon me instantly with eyes of fury, and asked
how I dared to interfere in a surgical case; and to contradict his friend,
Mr. Bland, a surgeon!

"They prepared for the operation--the surgeon whipped on his mittens--the
poor man, who was almost fainting with loss of blood, cast another piteous
look at me, and said, in an Irish accent, 'Long life to you, dear!--and
don't let'm--for what will I be without a leg? And my wife and children!'

"He fell back in a swoon, and I sprung between the surgeon and him;
insisting that, as he had appealed to me, he should be left to me; and
declared that I would have him carried to St. George's Hospital, where I
knew he would be taken care of properly.

"Frumpton stamped, and scarcely articulate with rage, bade me--'stir the
man at your peril!' adding expressions injurious to the hospital, with the
governors of which he had some quarrel. I made a sign to the workmen who
had brought in the wounded man; they lifted him instantly, and carried him
out before me; and one of them, being his countryman, followed, crying
aloud, '_Success_ to your honour! and may you _never_ want a _friend_!'

"Frumpton seized him by both shoulders, and pushing him out of the house,
exclaimed, 'Success, by G----, he shall never have, if I can help it! He
has lost a friend such as he can never get again--By G--, I'll make him
repent this!'

"Unmoved by these denunciations, I pursued my way to the hospital. You know
in what an admirable manner the London hospitals are conducted.--At St.
George's this poor man was received, and attended with the greatest care
and skill. The surgeon who has taken charge of him assures me that his leg
will, a month hence, be as useful as any leg in London.

"Dr. Frumpton and Mr. Bland have, I find, loudly complained of my
interference, as contrary to all medical etiquette--_Etiquette!_--from
Frumpton!--The story has been told with many exaggerations, and always to
my disadvantage.--I cannot, however, repent.--Let me lose what I may, I am
satisfied with the pleasure of seeing the poor man in a way to do well.
Pray let me hear from you, my dear father, and say, if you can, that you
think me right--Thank Caroline for her letter.

"Your affectionate

"ERASMUS PERCY."


LETTER FROM ALFRED.

"My dear father, I have made all possible inquiries about Buckhurst
Falconer. He stayed at Cheltenham till about a month ago with the Hautons,
and I hear attended Miss Hauton every where: but I do not think there is
any reason to believe the report of his paying his addresses to her. The
public attention he showed her was, in my opinion, designed only to pique
Caroline, whom, I'm persuaded, he thinks (between the fits of half-a-dozen
other fancies) the first of women--as he always calls her. Rosamond need
not waste much pity on him. He is an out-of-sight-out-of-mind man. The
pleasure of the present moment is all in all with him.--He has many good
points in his disposition; but Caroline had penetration enough to see that
his character would never suit hers; and I rejoice that she gave him a
decided refusal.

"Since he came to town, he has, by his convivial powers, his good stories,
good songs, and knack of mimicry, made himself so _famous_, that he has
more invitations to dinner than he can accept. He has wit and talents fit
for more than being the buffoon or mocking-bird of a good dinner and a
pleasant party; but he seems so well contented with this _rputation de
salon_, that I am afraid his ambition will not rise to any thing higher.
After leading this idle life, and enjoying this cheap-earned praise, he
will never submit to the seclusion and application necessary for the
attainment of the great prizes of professional excellence. I doubt whether
he will even persevere so far as to be called to the bar; though the other
day when I met him in Bond-street, he assured me, and bid me assure you,
that he is getting on _famously_, and eating his terms with a prodigious
appetite. He seemed heartily glad to see me, and expressed warm gratitude
for your having saved his conscience, and having prevented his father from
forcing him, as he said, to be a disgrace to the church.

"Rosamond asks what sort of girls the Miss Falconers are, and whether the
Falconers have been civil to me since I settled in town?--Yes; pretty well.
The girls are mere _show_ girls--like a myriad of others--sing, play,
dance, dress, flirt, and _all that_. Georgiana is _beautiful sometimes_;
Arabella, _ugly always_. I don't like either of them, and they don't like
me, for I am not an eldest son. The mother was prodigiously pleased with
me at first, because she mistook me for Godfrey, or rather she mistook me
for the heir of our branch of the Percys. I hear that Mrs. Falconer has
infinite address, both as a political and hymeneal _intrigante_: but I have
not time to study her. Altogether, the family, though they live in constant
gaiety, do not give me the idea of being happy among one another. I have
no particular reason for saying this. I judge only from the tact on this
subject which I have acquired from my own happy experience.

"Love to Rosamond--I am afraid she will think I have been too severe upon
Buckhurst Falconer. I know he is a favourite, at least a _protg_ of
hers and of Godfrey. Bid her remember I have acknowledged that he has
talents and generosity; but that which interests Rosamond in his favour
inclines ill-natured me against him--his being one of Caroline's suitors.
I think he has great assurance to continue, in spite of all repulse, to
hope, especially as he does nothing to render himself more worthy of
encouragement. Thank Caroline for her letter; and assure Rosamond, that,
though I have never noticed it, I was grateful for her entertaining
account of M. de Tourville's _vis_: I confess, I am rather late with my
acknowledgments; but the fire at Percy-hall, and many events which rapidly
succeeded, put that whole affair out of my head. Moreover, the story of
Euphrosyne and Count Albert was so squeezed under the seal, that I must beg
notes of explanation in her next. Who the deuce is Euphrosyne? and what
does the letter P--for the rest of the word was torn out--stand for? and is
Count Albert a hero in a novel, or a real live man?

"I saw a live man yesterday, whom I did not at all like to see--Sharpe,
walking with our _good_ cousin, Sir Robert Percy, in close conversation.
This conjunction, I fear, bodes us no good.--Pray, do pray make another
search for _the deed_.

"Your affectionate son,

"ALFRED PERCY."


Soon after this letter had been received, and while the picture of his
life, and the portraits of his worthy companions were yet fresh in her
view, Buckhurst Falconer took the unhappy moment to write to renew his
declaration of passionate attachment to Caroline, and to beg to be
permitted to wait upon her once more.

From the indignant blush which mounted in Caroline's face on reading his
letter, Rosamond saw how unlikely it was that this request should be
granted. It came, indeed, at an unlucky time. Rosamond could not refrain
from a few words of apology, and looks of commiseration for Buckhurst; yet
she entirely approved of Caroline's answer to his letter, and the steady
repetition of her refusal, and even of the strengthened terms in which
it was now expressed. Rosamond was always prudent for her friends, when
it came to any serious point where their interests or happiness were
concerned. Her affection for her friends, and her fear of doing wrong on
such occasions, awakened her judgment, and so controlled her imagination,
that she then proved herself uncommonly judicious and discreet.--Prudence
had not, it is true, been a part of Rosamond's character in childhood;
but, in the course of her education, a considerable portion of it had been
infused by a very careful and skilful hand. Perhaps it had never completely
assimilated with the original composition: sometimes the prudence fell to
the bottom, sometimes was shaken to the top, according to the agitation or
tranquillity of her mind; sometimes it was so faintly visible, that its
existence might be doubted by the hasty observer; but when put to a proper
test, it never failed to reappear in full force.--After any effort of
discretion in conduct, Rosamond, however, often relieved and amused herself
by talking in favour of the imprudent side of the question.

"You have decided prudently, my dear Caroline, I acknowledge," said she.
"But now your letter is fairly gone; now that it is all over, and that
we are safe, I begin to think you are a little too prudent for your
age.--Bless me, Caroline, if you are so prudent at eighteen, what will
you be at thirty? Beware!--and in the mean time you will never be a
heroine--what a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will never
get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or if kind fate
should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming difficulties,
even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the luxury of pity,
because we should always know that you would be so well able to extricate
yourself--so certain to conquer, or--not die--but endure.--Recollect that
Doctor Johnson, when his learned sock was off, confessed that he could
never be thoroughly interested for Clarissa, because he knew that her
prudence would always be equal to every occasion."

Mrs. Percy began to question whether Johnson had ever expressed this
sentiment seriously: she reprobated the cruelty of _friendly_ biographers,
who publish every light expression that escapes from celebrated lips in
private conversation; she was going to have added a word or two about the
injury done to the public, to young people especially, by the spreading
such rash dogmas under the sanction of a great name.

But Rosamond did not give her mother time to enforce this moral; she went
on rapidly with her own thoughts.

"Caroline, my dear," continued she, "you shall not be my heroine; you are
too well proportioned for a heroine--in mind, I mean: a heroine may--_must_
have a finely-proportioned person, but never a well-proportioned mind.
All her virtues must be larger than the life; all her passions those of
a tragedy queen. Produce--only dare to produce--one of your reasonable
wives, mothers, daughters, or sisters on the theatre, and you would see
them hissed off the stage. Good people are acknowledged to be the bane
of the drama and the novel--I never wish to see a reasonable woman on
the stage, or an unreasonable woman off it. I have the greatest sympathy
and admiration for your true heroine in a book; but I grant you, that in
real life, in a private room, the tragedy queen would be too much for me;
and the novel heroine would be the most useless, troublesome, affected,
haranguing, egotistical, insufferable being imaginable! So, my dear
Caroline, I am content, that you are my sister, and my friend, though I
give you up as a heroine."




CHAPTER VII.


LETTER FROM GODFREY PERCY TO MRS. PERCY.

"London, the British Hotel.

"You will be surprised, my dear mother, to find that I am in London,
instead of being, as I had hoped I should have been by this time,
with the army on the continent. Just as we were going to embark, we
were countermanded, and ordered to stay at our quarters. Conceive our
disappointment--to remain in garrison at the most stupid, idle country
town in England.

"You ask how I like my brother officers, and what sort of men they
are?--Major Gascoigne, son to my father's friend, I like extremely; he is a
man of a liberal spirit, much information, and zeal for the army. But what
I particularly admire in him is his candour. He says it is his own fault
that he is not higher in the army--that when he was a very young man, he
was of too unbending a temper--mistook bluntness for sincerity--did not
treat his superior officer with proper deference--lost a good friend by it.

"A fine lesson for me! and the better, because not intended.

"Next to Gascoigne I like Captain Henry: a young man of my own age,
uncommonly handsome, but quite free from conceit. There is something in his
manners so gentlemanlike, and he is of so frank a disposition, that I was
immediately prepossessed in his favour.--I don't like him the worse for
having a tinge of proper pride, especially in the circumstances in which he
is placed. I understand that it is suspected he is not of a good family;
but I am not impertinent enough to inquire into particulars. I have been
told, that when he first came into the regiment, some of the officers
wanted to make out what family he belongs to, and whether he is, or is not,
one of the Irish Henrys. They showed their curiosity in an unwarrantable
manner; and Henry, who has great feeling, and a spirit as quick to resent
injury as to be won by kindness, was going to call one of these gentlemen
to account for his impertinence. He would have had half a dozen duels upon
his hands, if Gascoigne had not settled them. I have not time to tell you
the whole story--but it is enough to say, that Major Gascoigne showed great
address and prudence, as well as steadiness, and you would all love Captain
Henry for his gratitude--he thinks Gascoigne a demi-god.

"The rest of my brother-officers are nothing supernatural--just what you
may call mere red coats; some of them fond of high play, others fond of
drinking: so I have formed no intimacy but with Gascoigne and Henry. My
father will see that I do not _yet_ think that the officers of my own mess
must all be the first men in the universe.

"Love to all at home. I hope we shall sail soon, and I hope Rosamond will
give me credit for the length of this letter.--She cannot say, with all
her malice, that my lines are at _shooting distance_, or that my words
are stretched out like a lawyer's--two good pages, count which way you
will!--and from Godfrey, who is not a letter-writer, as Alfred is!--Two
good pages, did I say? why, here's the best part of a third for you, if you
allow me to be,

  "My dear mother,
      with much respect,
    "Your dutiful, obedient,
        and affectionate son,
          "GODFREY PERCY."

Whilst Godfrey remained in quarters at this most idle and stupid of country
towns, some circumstances occurred in the regiment which put his prudence
to trial, and, sooner than he expected, called upon him for the exercise of
that spirit of forbearance and temper which he had promised his mother he
would show.--It was the more difficult to him to keep his temper, because
it was an affair which touched the interest of his friend Major Gascoigne.
The lieutenant-colonel of the regiment having been promoted, Major
Gascoigne had reasonable expectations of succeeding him; but, to his
disappointment, a younger man than himself, and a stranger to the regiment,
was put over his head. It was said that this appointment was made in
consequence of the new colonel being a nephew of Lord Skreene, and of his
also having it in his power to command two votes in parliament.

For the truth of this story we cannot pretend to vouch. But the credit
the report gained in the regiment created great discontents, which the
behaviour of the new lieutenant-colonel unfortunately was not calculated
to dissipate.--He certainly did not bear his honours meekly, but, on the
contrary, gave himself airs of authority, and played the martinet to a
useless and ridiculous degree. This, from a mere _parade officer_, who had
never been out of London, to a man like the major--who had seen service and
could show wounds--was, to use the mildest expression, ill-judged. Captain
Henry said it was _intolerable_--and Godfrey thought so.

Every parade day something unpleasant occurred, and, when it was talked
over, some of the officers took part with Gascoigne, and some with the
lieutenant-colonel--very few, however, with the latter--only those who
wanted to _keep in_ favour: officers in quarters as these were, had not
much to do; therefore they had the more time for disputes, which became of
more and more consequence every hour. Major Gascoigne behaved incomparably
well, never failing in respect towards his superior officer when he was
present, and when he was absent doing all that was possible to restrain the
imprudent zeal and indignation of his young friends.

One day, when Godfrey, Captain Henry, and Major Gascoigne were together,
the major actually knelt down to Henry, to prevail upon him to give up a
mad design of challenging his colonel.

That very day, not an hour afterwards, the lieutenant-colonel took occasion
to thwart the major about some circumstance of no consequence. Godfrey's
blood boiled in his veins--his promise to his mother, that he would be
as gentle as a lamb, he recollected at this instant--with difficulty he
restrained himself--still his blood boiled. Major Gascoigne's fear that
Godfrey and Henry should embroil themselves for his sake increased, for he
saw what passed in their hearts, and he had no peace of mind by day, or
rest by night.

Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity, either
of feeling or action. In this state of irritation, it was not possible
that things should long go on without coming to a crisis. Major Gascoigne
proposed, as the measure that would be most likely to restore and preserve
peace, to quit the regiment.--It was a great sacrifice on his part, and, at
first, none of his friends would consent to his making it; but, at last, he
brought them all to acknowledge that it was, upon the whole, the best thing
that could be done. Gascoigne had a friend, a major in another regiment
then in England, who was willing to make an exchange with him, and he
thought that the business could be arranged without much difficulty.
However, from caprice, the love of showing his power, or from some unknown
reason, the lieutenant-colonel made it his pleasure to oppose the exchange,
and said that it could not be done; though, as Captain Henry said, every
body knew, that by his writing a line to Lord Skreene it would have
been accomplished directly. It now recurred to Godfrey, that Cunningham
Falconer, being secretary to Lord Oldborough, might be of use in this
affair. Cunningham had always professed the greatest regard for Godfrey,
and he was determined, at least, to make this trial of his sincerity.

The secretary sent a civil answer in an official style, explaining _that
his office was not the War Office_; concluding by an assurance, that if
Captain Percy could point out how he could do so with propriety, nothing
could give Mr. C. Falconer greater pleasure than to have an opportunity of
obliging him.

Now Captain Percy, having a sort of generous good faith about him, believed
this last assurance; fancied that as he was no great writer he had not
explained himself well by letter, and that he should make Cunningham
understand him better _viva voce_. Keeping his own counsel, and telling
only Major Gascoigne and Captain Henry his object, he asked for a
fortnight's leave of absence, and, with some difficulty obtained it. He
went to London, waited on Secretary Falconer, and found him ten times
more _official_ in his style of conversation than in his letters. Godfrey
recollected that his cousin Cunningham had always been solemnly inclined,
but now he found him grown so mysterious, that he could scarcely obtain
a plain answer to the simplest question. "The whole man, head and heart,
seemed," as Godfrey said, "to be diplomatically closed." It was clear,
from the little that Cunningham did articulate, that he would do nothing
in furthering the exchange desired for Major Gascoigne; but whether this
arose from his having no influence with Lord Oldborough, or from his
fear of wearing it out, our young officer could not determine. He left
the secretary in disgust and despair, and went to wait on Commissioner
Falconer, who gave him a polite invitation to dinner, and overwhelmed him
with professions of friendship; but, as soon as Godfrey explained his
business, the commissioner protested that he could not venture to speak
to Lord Oldborough on such an affair, and he earnestly advised him not to
interest himself so much for Major Gascoigne, who, though doubtless a very
deserving officer, was, in fact, nothing more. He next had recourse to
Buckhurst Falconer, and asked him to persuade Colonel Hauton to speak to
his uncle upon the subject. This Buckhurst immediately promised to do, and
kept his promise. But Colonel Hauton swore that his uncle never, on any
occasion, listened to his representations; therefore it was quite useless
to speak to him. After wandering from office to office, wasting hour after
hour, and day after day, waiting for people who did him no good when he
did see them, Godfrey at last determined to do what he should have done
at first--apply to Lord Oldborough. It is always better to deal with
principals than with secondaries. Lord Oldborough had the reputation
of being inaccessible, haughty, and peremptory in the extreme; the
secretaries, clerks, and under-clerks, "trembled at his name, each under
each, through all their ranks of venality." But to Captain Percy's
surprise, the moment his name was announced, the minister immediately
recognized him, and received him most graciously. His lordship inquired
after his old friend, Mr. Percy--said that Mr. Percy was one of the few
really independent men he had ever known. "Mr. Percy is an excellent
country gentleman, and, for England's sake, I wish there were many, many
more such. Now, sir, how can I serve his son?"

With frankness and brevity which suited the minister and the man, Godfrey
told his business, and Lord Oldborough, with laconic decision, equally
pleasing to the young soldier, replied, "that if it was possible, the
thing should be done for Major Gascoigne"--inquired how long Captain Percy
purposed to stay in town--desired to see him the day before he should leave
London, and named the hour.

All the diplomacy of Cunningham Falconer's face could not disguise
his astonishment when he saw the manner in which his master treated
Godfrey.--The next day the commissioner invited Captain Percy in a pressing
manner to dine with him: "We shall have a very pleasant party," said Mr.
Falconer, "and Mrs. Falconer insists upon the pleasure of your company--you
have never seen my girls since they were children--your own near
relations!--you must be better acquainted: come--I will take no denial."

Godfrey willingly accepted the invitation: he would, _perhaps_, have found
means to have excused himself, had he known whom he was to meet at this
dinner--Miss Hauton--the dangerous fair one, whom he had resolved to avoid.
But he was in the room with her, and beyond all power of receding, before
he knew his peril. The young lady looked more beautiful than ever, and more
melancholy. One of the Miss Falconers took an opportunity of telling him,
in confidence, the cause of her poor friend's dejection. "Her uncle, Lord
Oldborough, wants to marry her to the Marquis of Twickenham, the eldest son
of the Duke of Greenwich, and Miss Hauton can't endure him."

The marquis was also at this dinner--Godfrey did not much wonder at
the lady's dislike; for he was a mean, peevish-looking man, had no
conversation, and appeared to be fond of drinking.

"But Lord Oldborough, who is all for ambition," whispered Miss Falconer,
"and who maintains that there is no such thing as love, except in novels,
says, that his niece may read foolish novels after marriage as well as
before, if she pleases, but that she must marry like a reasonable woman."

Godfrey pitied her; and, whilst he was pitying, Mrs. Falconer arranged
a party for the opera for this night, in which Godfrey found himself
included. Perhaps he was imprudent; but he was a young man, and human
nature is--human nature.

At the opera Godfrey felt his danger increase every moment. Miss Hauton
was particularly engaging, and many circumstances conspired to flatter his
vanity, and to interest him for this fair victim of ambition. Her marquis
was in the box, smelling of claret, and paying his _devoirs_ to his
intended bride, apparently very little to her satisfaction. Commissioner
Falconer, leaning forward, complimented Miss Hauton upon her appearance
this night, and observed that though it was a new opera, all fashionable
eyes were turned from the stage to Lady Oldborough's box.

Miss Hauton smiled civilly upon the commissioner, then turning to Godfrey,
in a low soft voice, repeated,

  "And ev'n when fashion's brightest arts decoy,
  The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?"

Godfrey was touched--she saw it, and sighed. A short time afterwards her
marquis left the box. Miss Hauton recovered from her languor, and became
animated in conversation with Godfrey. He felt the whole power of her
charms, the immediate force of the temptation; but he recollected who she
was--he recollected that she had not shown any instances of discretion
which could redeem her from the consequences of a mother's disgrace:
the songs he had heard from Miss Hauton's lips, Captain Bellamy and the
_waltzing_, came full upon his mind.

"No," said he to himself, "as a wife I cannot think of her: were the
Marquis of Twickenham out of the question, my wife she cannot be. Then
honour forbids me to trifle with her affections merely to gratify my vanity
or the feelings of the moment."

Captain Percy well knew that some men can satisfy their consciences by
calling a certain sort of treachery by the soft name of gallantry. He was
aware that he could, like many others in similar circumstances, deceive by
equivocal looks and expressions, and then throw the blame from themselves,
by asking why the woman was such a fool as to believe, protesting that they
never had a thought of her, and swearing that they had not the least idea
she had ever understood them to mean any thing serious; but Godfrey had too
much good feeling and good principle to follow such examples.

Miss Hauton had a copy of the new opera before her, and as she turned over
the leaves, she pointed out to him the passages that she liked. Some were
peculiarly applicable to her own situation, representing a heroine forced
to marry a man she hates, whilst she tenderly loves another. Godfrey could
not, or would not, understand the Italian. It was perfectly well explained
to him; and then, perceiving the applications made of certain lines by Miss
Hauton's voice and eyes, he had no resource but in a new singer, to whom
he became suddenly so attentive that nothing could distract him from the
stage. When the actress ceased to sing, he found means to engage the Miss
Falconers in a discussion of her merits, which, with all the nonsense and
compliments to their taste the occasion required, filled up the dangerous
interval till the opera was over; then--more dangerous still--waiting for
carriages in _the crush room_; but through all these perils, Godfrey passed
so dexterously, as to leave Miss Hauton in doubt whether she had been
understood or not. Thus he hoped that her conscience would in future, if
she should ever after her marriage reflect on the opera of this night, be
as much at ease as his own--though perhaps not with so good reason.

After this night, Godfrey would not expose himself to a repetition of
similar danger; and that he might avoid meeting this fair lady again, he
refused two invitations from Mrs. Falconer to a ball at her house, and to a
musical party.--This deserves to be recorded to his credit, because he was
very fond both of music and dancing.

The day before he was to leave town, at the hour and minute appointed,
Godfrey waited upon Lord Oldborough; but not such his reception now as
it had been on his first visit to this minister: he was kept two hours
waiting alone in an antechamber. At last the cabinet door opened, and Lord
Oldborough appeared with a dark cold countenance, and a haughty stiffness
in his whole frame. His lordship walked deliberately forward, till he
came within a yard of our young officer, and then, without speaking, bent
his head and body slowly, and so remained, as if waiting to be informed
who Captain Percy was, and what his business might be. Astonishment,
and offended pride, flashed successively in Godfrey's countenance. Lord
Oldborough, after fixing his interrogating eyes upon him ineffectually,
receiving no explanation, seemed to come a little to his recollection, and
condescended to say, "Captain Percy, I believe!--your commands with me,
Captain Percy."

"My lord, I have the honour to be here by your lordship's appointment on
Major Gascoigne's business."

"Sir, you had a note from me yesterday, I believe, which contained all that
I have it in my power to say on Major Gascoigne's business."

"Pardon me, my lord--I never had the honour of receiving any note from your
lordship."

"Very extraordinary! I sent it by my own man. You are at Batts' hotel,
sir?"

"No, my lord, at the British hotel."

"Ha!--that is the cause of the mistake. You will find my note, sir, at
Batts'."

Captain Percy bowed--Lord Oldborough bowed--not a word more passed. Lord
Oldborough walked on to his carriage, which rolled him away with glorious
rapidity, whilst Godfrey, his face flushed with resentment, looked after
him for an instant, then putting on his hat, which the porter held to him,
he walked off as fast as possible to Batts' hotel, impatient to see the
note which was to explain the meaning of this extraordinary conduct. The
note he found; but it threw little light upon the business. It was written
in Secretary Cunningham Falconer's hand, and was as follows:

"Lord Oldborough will inform Captain Percy when any thing shall be decided
upon relative to the business on which Captain Percy spoke to Lord
Oldborough: and as communication by letter will answer every purpose, his
lordship hopes that he shall not be the means of detaining Captain Percy
longer from his regiment.

"_Tuesday_, ----."

A civil dismission!--After three attempts Godfrey obtained a sight of
Secretary Cunningham, who, as he thought, was at the bottom of the affair;
but this suspicion was at first dissipated by the unusual openness
with which the secretary looked and spoke. Apparently without fear of
committing himself, he said at once that it was a very extraordinary
proceeding--that he could no way account for it, but by supposing that the
lieutenant-colonel in question had, through his relation, Lord Skreene,
influenced his Grace of Greenwich, and that Lord Oldborough could not, in
the present conjuncture, make any movement in direct opposition to the
duke.

"In all these things, in all transactions with politicians," said Godfrey,
"there are wheels within wheels, which we simple people never suspect; and
by awkwardly interfering with them when they are in motion, we are hurt, we
know not how or why."

Cunningham smiled significantly, but was silent--his air of frankness
vanished, and his solemn reserve returned. "Cunningham will never be hurt
in that way," thought Godfrey; "I never saw a fellow so careful of himself.
I am convinced he would not hazard his little finger to save the whole
British empire, much less to serve a private friend like me, or a poor
honest man like Gascoigne."

Godfrey was too proud to make any further attempts to interest his
diplomatic cousin in the affair. He rose, and bade the secretary adieu,
who, with proper smiles and bows, attended him to the very door.

"Thank Heaven!" thought Godfrey, as he left the secretary's office, "I
am not forced to dance attendance upon any great man, or any great man's
secretary. I am--like my father--independent, and will keep myself so; and
if ever I live upon a smile for years, it shall not be upon the smiles of a
minister, but on those of a fair lady."

Godfrey left town immediately, and returned to his regiment.




CHAPTER VIII.


Little versed in the ways of courts or courtiers, Godfrey had been easily
deceived by the apparent candour of Cunningham Falconer. The fact was, that
Cunningham, not directly from himself, but by means of persons of whom Lord
Oldborough could have no suspicion, had insinuated to his lordship that
Godfrey Percy was the secret cause of the aversion Miss Hauton showed to
the proposed match with the Marquis of Twickenham. This idea once suggested
was easily confirmed by the account of the young lady's behaviour at the
opera, which was reported to Lord Oldborough with proper exaggerations, and
with a total misrepresentation of Godfrey's conduct. The fainting at the
ball was also recollected, and many other little circumstances combined to
bring conviction to Lord Oldborough's mind. He was now persuaded that Major
Gascoigne's business was merely a pretence for Godfrey's coming to town:
apprehension of being disappointed in completing an alliance essential
to his ambitious views, pique at the idea of being deceived, and nearly
duped by a boy and girl, a rooted hatred and utter contempt for love and
love affairs, altogether produced that change in Lord Oldborough's manner
towards Captain Percy which had appeared so extraordinary.--Had Captain
Percy delayed to leave town, he would next day have received orders from
his commanding officer to join his regiment. As to Major Gascoigne's
business, it had made so little impression upon Lord Oldborough, that he
had totally forgotten the poor major's name till Godfrey repeated it to
him. Indeed, Godfrey himself could scarcely have blamed his lordship for
this, had he known how much business, how many cares pressed at this time
upon the mind of the unhappy statesman.--Besides a load of public business,
and all the open and violent attacks of opposition, which he had usually to
sustain, he was now under great and increasing anxiety from the discovery
of that plot against him, among his immediate associates in office, which
the Tourville papers, deciphered by Commissioner Falconer and Cunningham,
had but partially revealed. Lord Oldborough was in the condition of a
person apprised that he is standing upon ground that is undermined, but
who does not know exactly by what hand or at what moment the train that
may destroy him is to be set on fire. One word frequently recurred in
the Tourville papers, which puzzled Commissioner Falconer extremely, and
of which he was never able to make out the meaning; the word was Gassoc.
It was used thus: "We are sorry to find that the Gassoc has not agreed
to our proposal."--"No answer has been given to question No. 2 by the
Gassoc."--"With regard to the subsidy, of which 35,000_l._ have not been
sent or received, the Gassoc has never explained; in consequence, great
discontents here."--"If the Gassoc be finally determined against the
_Eagle_, means must be taken to accomplish the purposes alluded to in
paragraph 4, in green (of the 7th ult.), also those in No. B. in lemon
juice (of September last)."--"The Gassoc will take notes of the mining
tools forgotten--also bullets too large, and no flints (as per No. 9, in
sympathetic ink)--also the sea charts, sent instead of maps--consequent
delay in march of troops--loss of fortress--to be attributed to _the
Eagle_."

_The Eagle_, which at first had been taken for granted to be the Austrian
eagle, was discovered to be Lord Oldborough. An eagle was his lordship's
crest, and the sea-charts, and the mining-tools, brought the sense home to
him conclusively. It was plain that the Gassoc stood for some person who
was inimical to Lord Oldborough, but who it could be was the question.
Commissioner Falconer suggested, that for _Gassoc_, you should read
_Gosshawk_; then, said he, "by finding what nobleman or gentleman has a
gosshawk in his arms, you have the family name, and the individual is
afterwards easily ascertained." To the Heralds'-office the commissioner
went a gosshawking, but after spending a whole day with the assistance of
Garter king at arms, he could make nothing of his gosshawks, and he gave
them up.

He next presumed that there might be a mistake of one letter in the foreign
spelling of the word, and that _Gassoc_ should be _Cassock_, and might
then mean a certain bishop, who was known to be a particular enemy of Lord
Oldborough. But still there were things ascribed to the Gassoc, which
could not come within the jurisdiction or cognizance of the Cassock--and
the commissioner was reluctantly obliged to give up the church. He next
suggested, that not only one letter, but every letter in the word might be
mistaken in the foreign spelling, and that _Gassoc_ might be the French or
German written imitation of the oral sound of some English proper name. The
commissioner supported this opinion very plausibly by citing many instances
of the barbarous spelling of English names by foreigners: Bassompierre
writes Jorchaux for York-house, Innimthort for Kensington; even in the
polite memoirs of le Comte de Grammont, we have Soutkask for Southesk,
and Warmstre for some English name not yet deciphered. Upon this hint
the commissioner and Cunningham made anagrams of half the noble names in
England, but in vain.

Afterwards, recollecting that it was the fashion at one time even to pun in
the coats of arms of the nobility, and in the choice of their mottos, he
went to work again at the Heralds'-office, and tried a course of puns, but
to no purpose: the commissioner was mortified to find all his ingenuity at
fault.

Cunningham took care not to suggest anything, therefore he could never be
convicted of mistake. Nor was he in the least vexed by his father's or
his own fruitless labour, because he thought it might tend to his future
advancement.

Lord Oldborough had thrown out a hint that it would soon be necessary to
recall the present and send a new envoy or resident to the German court in
question; Cunningham nourished a hope of being chosen for this purpose,
as the Tourville papers were already known to him, and he could, under
private instructions, negotiate with M. de Tourville, and draw from him
an explanation. He did not, however, trust even his father with the hope
he had conceived, but relied on his own address, and continually strove,
by oblique hints, to magnify the danger of leaving any part of the plot
unravelled.

What effect these suggestions produced, or whether they produced
any, Cunningham was unable to judge from the minister's impenetrable
countenance. Lord Oldborough lost not a moment in repairing the mistake
about sea-charts, and the omission of mining tools, which he had discovered
from a paragraph in the Tourville papers; he stayed not to inquire whether
the error had been wilful or unintentional--_that_ he left for future
investigation. His next object was the subsidy. This day the Duke of
Greenwich gave a cabinet dinner. After dinner, when the servants had
retired, and when none of the company were prepared for such a stroke, Lord
Oldborough, in his decided, but very calm manner, began with, "My lords, I
must call your attention to an affair of some importance--the subsidy from
the secret service to our German ally."

All who had within them sins unwhipped of justice trembled.

"I have learned, no matter how," continued Lord Oldborough, "that, by some
strange mistake, 35,000_l_ of that subsidy were not remitted at the time
appointed by us, and that discontents, likely to be prejudicial to his
majesty's service, have arisen in consequence of this delay."

His lordship paused, and appeared to take no notice of the faces of feigned
astonishment and real consciousness by which he was surrounded. Each looked
at the other to inquire by what means this secret was divulged, and to
discover, if possible, how much more was known. Lord Skreene began at the
same moment with the Duke of Greenwich to suggest that some clerk or agent
must certainly be much to blame. Lord Oldborough, in his decided tone,
replied that it was indifferent to him what clerk, agent, or principal
was to blame in the business; but that if the money were not _bon fide_
remitted, and acknowledged by the court to which it was promised, and
before any disagreeable consequences should ensue, he must be under the
necessity of stating the affair to his majesty--of resigning his office,
and bringing the whole before parliament.

The terror of his voice, and lightning of his eye, the dread of his
determined spirit, operated powerfully. The subsidy was remitted the next
day, though at the expense of a service of plate which Lord Skreene had
bespoken for his mistress, and though Secretary Cope was compelled to sell
at some disadvantage a few of the very few remaining acres of his paternal
estate, to make good what had been borrowed from the secret service money.

At the cabinet dinner, the keen eye of Lord Oldborough had discerned
some displeasure lurking in the mind of the Duke of Greenwich--a man of
considerable political consequence from his rank and connexions, and from
the number of voices he could command or influence. Lord Oldborough knew
that, if he could regain the duke, he could keep in awe his other enemies.
His grace was a puzzle-headed, pompous fool, whom Heaven had cursed with
the desire to be a statesman. He had not more than four ideas; but to those
four, which he conceived to be his own, he was exclusively attached.--Yet a
person of address and cunning could put things into his head, which after
a time he would find there, believe to be his own, and which he would then
propose as new with great solemnity, and support with much zeal. Lord
Oldborough, however, was neither able nor willing to manage his grace in
this manner; he was too imperious; his pride of character was at continual
variance with the duke's pride of rank. The duke's was a sort of pride
which Lord Oldborough did not always understand, and which, when he did, he
despised--it was a species of pride that was perpetually taking offence at
trifling failures in etiquette, of which Lord Oldborough, intent upon great
objects, was sometimes guilty. There is a class of politicians who err by
looking for causes in too high a sphere, and by attributing the changes
which perplex states and monarchs to great passions and large motives.
Lord Oldborough was one of this class, and with all his talents would have
failed in every attempt to comprehend and conciliate the Duke of Greenwich,
had he not been assisted by the inferior genius of Commissioner Falconer.
While his lordship was thus searching far and wide among the reasonable
and probable causes for the duke's coldness, examining and re-examining
the bearings of every political measure, as it could affect his grace's
interest immediately or remotely, Commissioner Falconer sought for the
cause, and found it in the lowest scale of trifles--he made the discovery
by means which Lord Oldborough could not have devised, and would not
have used. The duke had a favourite under-clerk, who, for a valuable
consideration, disclosed the secret to the commissioner. Lord Oldborough
had sent his grace a note, written in his own hand, sealed with a wafer.
The clerk, who was present when the note was received, said that the duke's
face flushed violently, and that he flung the note immediately to his
secretary, exclaiming, "Open that, if you please, sir--_I wonder how any
man can have the impertinence to send me his spittle!_"

This nice offence, which bore so coarse a comment, had alienated the mind
of the Duke of Greenwich. When Commissioner Falconer had thus sagaciously
discovered the cause of the noble duke's displeasure, he with great
address applied a remedy. Without ever hinting that he knew of the
offensive circumstance, having some business to transact with the duke,
he contrived, as if undesignedly, to turn the conversation upon his friend
Lord Oldborough's strange and unaccountable negligence of common forms
and etiquette; as a proof of which he told the duke in confidence, and
in a very low voice, an anecdote, which he heard from his son Cunningham,
from Lord Oldborough's own secretary, or the commissioner protested that
he would not, he could not have believed it--his lordship had been once
actually upon the point of sealing a note with a wafer to one of the royal
dukes!--had the wafer absolutely on his lips, when Cunningham felt it his
duty to take the liberty of remonstrating. Upon which, Lord Oldborough, as
Commissioner Falconer said, looked with the utmost surprise, and replied,
"I have sealed with a wafer to the Duke of Greenwich, and _he_ was not
offended."

This anecdote, the truth of which it fortunately never occurred to the
duke to doubt, had an immediate and powerful effect upon his mind, as the
commissioner saw by the complacent smile that played on his countenance,
and still further by the condescending pity with which his grace observed,
that "Great geniuses never understand common things--but do every thing
awkwardly, whether they cut open a book, or seal a note."

Mr. Falconer having thus brought the duke into fine temper, left him in the
best dispositions possible towards Lord Oldborough, went to his lordship
to report progress, and to boast of his success; but he told only as much
of what had passed as he thought would suit the statesman's character,
and ensure his approbation.--The Duke of Greenwich was as much pleased by
this reconciliation as Lord Oldborough; for, though in a fit of offended
pride he had been so rash as to join his lordship's enemies, yet he had
always dreaded coming to open war with such an adversary. His grace
felt infinitely more safe and comfortable when he was leaning upon Lord
Oldborough than when he stood opposed to him, even in secret. There were
points in politics in which he and Lord Oldborough coincided, though they
had arrived at these by far different roads. They agreed in an overweening
love of aristocracy, and in an inclination towards arbitrary power; they
agreed in a hatred of innovation; they agreed in the principle that free
discussion should be discouraged, and that the country should be governed
with a high and strong hand. On these principles Lord Oldborough always
acted, but seldom spoke, and the Duke of Greenwich continually talked, but
seldom acted: in fact, his grace, "though he roared so loud, and looked
so wondrous grim," was, in action, afraid of every shadow. Right glad was
he to have his political vaunts made good by a coadjutor of commanding
talents, resource, and civil courage. Yet, as Lord Oldborough observed,
with a man of such wayward pride and weak understanding, there was no
security from day to day for the permanence of his attachment. It was then
that Commissioner Falconer, ever ready at expedients, suggested that an
alliance between his grace's family and his lordship's would be the best
possible security; and that the alliance might be easily effected, since
it was evident of late that the Marquis of Twickenham was much disposed to
admire the charms of his lordship's niece, Miss Hauton. Lord Oldborough
had not remarked that the marquis admired any thing but good wine; his
lordship's attention was not turned to these things, nor had he, in
general, much faith in friendships founded on family alliances; but
he observed that the duke was peculiarly tenacious of connexions and
relationships, and, therefore, this might be the best method of holding
him.

From the moment Lord Oldborough decided in favour of this scheme, Mr.
and Mrs. Falconer had done all in their power, with the utmost zeal and
address, to forward it, by contriving continual dancing-parties and musical
meetings, at their house, for the young people. Lady Oldborough, who was
sickly, whose manners were not popular, and who could not bear _to be put
out of her way_, was quite unsuited to this sort of business, and rejoiced
that the Falconers took it off her hands. Things were just in this state,
and Lord Oldborough had fixed his mind upon the match, when Godfrey Percy's
arrival in town had threatened disappointment. In consequence of this fear,
Lord Oldborough not only despatched Godfrey directly to his regiment, but,
to put an end to the danger at once, to banish the idea of seeing him
again completely out of the young lady's head, the cruel uncle and decided
politician had Godfrey's regiment ordered immediately to the West Indies.


LETTER FROM GODFREY PERCY TO HIS FATHER.

"My dear father,

"We have a new lieutenant-colonel. Lord Skreene has removed his precious
nephew to another regiment, and to punish us for not liking the pretty boy,
has ordered us all off to the West Indies: so ends our croaking. Our new
King Log we cannot complain of as too young, or too much on the _qui vive_:
he looks as if he were far gone in a lethargy, can hardly keep himself
awake while he is giving the word of command, and, instead of being a
martinet, I am sure he would not care if the whole corps wore their
regimentals the wrong side outwards.--Gascoigne will have all the
regimental business on his shoulders, and no man can do it better.--He is
now at my elbow, supplying four hundred men and forty officers with heads.
The noise of questions and commands, and the notes of preparation, are so
loud and dissonant, that I hardly know what I write. Gascoigne, though not
benefited, was obliged to me for my wrong-head-journey to London. Henry
was very angry with Lord Oldborough for jilting me--Gascoigne with much
ado kept him in proper manners towards the lieutenant-colonel, and I, in
admiration of Gascoigne, kept my temper miraculously. But there was an
impertinent puppy of an ensign, a partisan of the lieutenant-colonel,
who wanted, I'm convinced, to have the credit of fighting a duel for the
colonel, and he one day said, in Captain Henry's hearing, that 'it was no
wonder some men should rail against ministerial _influence_, who had no
friends to look to, and were men of no family.'--'Do you mean that for me,
sir?' said Henry. 'Judge for yourself, sir.' Poor Henry judged ill, and
challenged the ensign.--They fought, and the ensign was slightly wounded.
This duel has wakened curiosity again about Captain Henry's birth, and he
is in danger of being exposed continually to things he could not like,
and could not well resent. He consulted Gascoigne and me, and has told us
all he knows of his history.--Read what follows to yourself, for I have
permission to speak of his affairs only to you. Captain Henry assured us
that he really does not know to what family he belongs, nor who his father
and mother were; but he has reason to believe that they were Irish. He was
bred up in a merchant's house in Dublin. The merchant broke, and went off
with his family to America. Henry was at that time fifteen or sixteen. The
merchant then said, that Henry was not his nephew, nor any relation to him,
but hinted that he was the son of a Mr. Henry, who had taken an unfortunate
part in _the troubles_ of Ireland, and who had _suffered_--that his mother
had been a servant-maid, and that she was dead. The merchant added, that he
had taken care of Henry from regard to his father, but that, obliged by his
own failure in business to quit the country, he must thenceforward resign
the charge.--He farther observed, that the army was now the young man's
only resource, and, on taking leave, he put into Henry's hands a 50_l._
note, and an ensign's commission.--With his commission he joined his
regiment, which was at Cork. A few days after his arrival, a Cork banker
called upon him, and inquired whether he was Ensign Charles Henry; and upon
his answering in the affirmative, informed him that he had orders to pay
him 400_l._ a year in quarterly payments. The order came from a house in
Dublin, and this was all the banker knew. On Henry's application in Dublin,
he was told that they had direction to stop payment of the annuity if any
questions were asked.--Of course, Henry asked no more.--The annuity has
been regularly paid to him ever since--When he was scarcely seventeen, he
was pillaged of a couple of hundred pounds one night by a set of sharpers
at the gaming-table: this loss roused his prudence, and he has never
played since. He has for many years lived within his pay; for he prudently
considered, that the extraordinary supply might suddenly fail, and then he
might he left in debt and distress, and at the same time with habits of
extravagance.--Instead of which, he has laid up money every year, and has a
considerable sum. He wishes to quit the army, and to go into a mercantile
house, for which his early education has fitted him. He has a particular
talent for languages: speaks French and Italian accurately--Spanish and
Dutch well enough for all the purposes of commerce. So any mercantile
house, who wants a partner, agent, or _clerk for foreign affairs_ (perhaps
I am not correct in the technical terms), could not do better than to take
Charles Henry. For his integrity and honour I would answer with my life.
Now, my dear father, could you have the goodness to assist us so far as to
write and inquire about the partner in London of those Dutch merchants,
whom you had an opportunity of obliging at the time of the shipwreck?--I
cannot recollect their strange names, but if I am not mistaken, they left
you their address, and that of their London correspondent.--If this partner
should be a substantial man, perhaps our best plan would be to try to
get Henry into his house. You have certainly some claim there, and the
Dutchmen desired we would apply to them if ever they could do any thing
to serve us--we can but try. I am afraid you will say, '_This is like one
of Godfrey's wild schemes._' I am still more afraid that you should think
Henry's romantic story is _against him_--but such things are--that is all I
can say. Here is no motive for deception; and if you were to see the young
man, his countenance and manner would immediately persuade you of his
perfect truth and ingenuousness. I am aware that his romantic history would
not do for the Dutch merchants, or the London partner; they would probably
set him down directly for an adventurer, and refuse to have any thing to
do with him: so I see no necessity for beginning by stating it. I know you
hate, and I am sure so do I, all novel-like concealments and mysteries; but
because a man makes a bargain with another, he is not obliged to tell him
his whole history--because he takes him for his partner or his master, he
is not called upon to make him his confidant. All that the merchants can
want or have a right to know is forthcoming and clear--character and money.

"My affectionate love and old-fashioned duty to my dear mother--pray assure
her and my sisters that they shall hear from me, though I am going to have
'one foot on sea and one on land.'

"Tell dear Caroline the portfolio she made for me shall go with me to
the world's end; and Rosamond's _Tippoo Saib_ shall see the _West_
Indies--Gascoigne has been in the West Indies before now, and he says
and proves, that temperance and spice are the best preservatives in that
climate; so you need not fear for me, for you know I love pepper better
than port. I am called away, and can only add that the yellow fever there
has subsided, as an officer who arrived last week tells me. Our regiment is
just going to embark in high spirits.--God bless you all.

"Your affectionate son,

"G. Percy.

"P. S. Don't let my mother or Rosamond trust to newspaper reports--trust to
nothing but my letters;--Caroline, I know, is fit to be the sister, and I
hope will some time be the mother, of heroes."




CHAPTER IX.


Lord Oldborough expected that the prompt measure of despatching the
dangerous Godfrey to the West Indies would restore things to their former
train. For a week after Godfrey Percy's departure, Miss Hauton seemed much
affected by it, and was from morning till night languid or in the sullens:
of all which Lord Oldborough took not the slightest notice. In the course
of a fortnight Miss Falconer, who became inseparable from Miss Hauton,
flattering, pitying, and humouring her, contrived to recover the young
lady from this fit of despondency, and produced her again at musical
parties. She was passionately fond of music; the Miss Falconers played on
the piano-forte and sung, their brother John accompanied exquisitely on
the flute, and the Marquis of Twickenham, who was dull as "the fat weed
that grows on Lethe's brink," stood by--admiring. His proposal was made
in form--and in form the young lady evaded it--in form her uncle, Lord
Oldborough, told her that the thing must be, and proceeded directly to
decide upon the settlements with the Duke of Greenwich, and set the lawyers
to work. In the mean time, the bride elect wept, and deplored, and refused
to eat, drink, or speak, except to the Miss Falconers, with whom she was
closeted for hours, and to whom the task of managing her was consigned
by common consent. The marquis, who, though he was, as he said, much in
love, was not very delicate as to the possession of the lady's affections,
wondered that any one going to be married to the Marquis of Twickenham
could be so shy and so melancholy; but her confidantes assured him that
it was all uncommon refinement and sensibility, which was their sweetest
Maria's only fault. Excellent claret, and a moderately good opinion of
himself, persuaded the marquis of the truth of all which the Miss Falconers
pleased to say, and her uncle graciously granted the delays, which the
young lady prayed for week after week--till, at last, striking his hand
upon the table, Lord Oldborough said, "There must be an end of this--the
papers must be signed this day se'nnight--Maria Hauton shall be married
this day fortnight."--Maria Hauton was sent for to her uncle's study; heard
her doom in sullen silence; but she made no show of resistance, and Lord
Oldborough was satisfied. An hour afterwards Commissioner Falconer begged
admission, and presented himself with a face of consternation--Lord
Oldborough, not easily surprised or alarmed, waited, however, with some
anxiety, till he should speak.

"My lord, I beg pardon for this intrusion: I know, at this time, you are
much occupied; but it is absolutely necessary I should communicate--I feel
it to be my duty immediately--and I cannot hesitate--though I really do not
know how to bring myself--"

There was something in the apparent embarrassment and distress of Mr.
Falconer, which Lord Oldborough's penetrating eye instantly discerned to
be affected.--His lordship turned a chair towards him, but said not a
word.--The commissioner sat down like a man acting despair; but looking for
a moment in Lord Oldborough's face, he saw what his lordship was thinking
of, and immediately his affected embarrassment became real and great.

"Well, commissioner, what is the difficulty?"

"My lord, I have within this quarter of an hour heard what will ruin me for
ever in your lordship's opinion, unless your lordship does me the justice
to believe that I never heard or suspected it before--I have only to trust
to your magnanimity--and I do."

Lord Oldborough bowed slightly--"The fact, if you please, my dear sir."

"The fact, my lord, is, that Captain Bellamy, whose eyes, I suppose, have
been quickened by jealousy, has discovered what has escaped us all--what
never would have occurred to me--what never could have entered into my mind
to suspect--what I still hope--"

"The fact, sir, let me beg."

The urgency of Lord Oldborough's look and voice admitted of no delay.

"Miss Hauton is in love with my son John."

"Indeed!"

This "Indeed!" was pronounced in a tone which left the commissioner
in doubt what it expressed, whether pure surprise, indignation, or
contempt--most of the last, perhaps: he longed to hear it repeated, but
he had not that satisfaction. Lord Oldborough turned abruptly--walked
up and down the room with such a firm tread as sounded ominously to the
commissioner's ear.

"So then, sir, Miss Hauton, I think you tell me, is in love with Cornet
Falconer?"

"Captain Bellamy says so, my lord."

"Sir, I care not what Captain Bellamy says--nor do I well know who or what
he is--much less what he can have to do with my family affairs--I ask, sir,
what reason you have to believe that my niece is in love, as it is called,
with your son? You certainly would not make such a report to me without
good reason for believing it--what are your reasons?"

"Excuse me, my lord, my reasons are founded on information which I do not
think myself at liberty to repeat: but upon hearing the report from--"
The commissioner, in the hurry and confusion of his mind, and in his new
situation, totally lost his _tact_, and at this moment was upon the point
of again saying _from Captain Bellamy_; but the flash of Lord Oldborough's
eye warned him of his danger--he dropped the name.

"I immediately went to sound my son John, and, as far as I can judge, he
has not yet any suspicion of the truth."

Lord Oldborough's countenance cleared. The commissioner recovered his
presence of mind, for he thought he saw his way before him. "I thought it
my duty to let your lordship know the first hint I had of such a nature;
for how soon it might be surmised, or what steps might be taken, I must
leave it to your lordship to judge--I can only assure you, that as yet, to
the best of my belief, John has not any suspicion: fortunately, he is very
slow--and not very bright."

Lord Oldborough stood with compressed lips, seeming to listen, but deep in
thought.

"Mr. Commissioner Falconer, let us understand one another well now--as
we have done hitherto. If your son, Cornet Falconer, were to marry Maria
Hauton, she would no longer be my niece, he would have a portionless,
friendless, and, in my opinion, a very silly wife. He is, I think you say,
not very bright himself--he would probably remain a cornet the rest of his
days--all idea of assistance being of course out of the question in that
case, from me or mine, to him or his."

The awful pause which Lord Oldborough made, and his determined look, gave
the commissioner opportunity to reflect much in a few seconds.

"On the contrary," resumed his lordship, "if your son John, my dear sir,
show the same desire to comply with my wishes, and to serve my interests,
which I have found in the rest of his family, he shall find me willing and
able to advance him as well as his brother Cunningham."

"Your lordship's wishes will, I can answer for it, be laws to him, as well
as to the rest of his family."

"In one word then--let Cornet Falconer be married elsewhere, within
a fortnight, and I prophesy that within a year he shall be a
field-officer--within two years, a lieutenant-colonel."

Commissioner Falconer bowed twice--low to the field-officer--lower to the
lieutenant-colonel.

"I have long had a match in my eye for John," said the father; "but a
fortnight, my gracious lord--that is so very short a time! Your lordship
will consider there are delicacies in these cases--no young lady--it is
impossible--your lordship must be sensible that it is really impossible,
with a young lady of any family."

"I am aware that it is difficult, but not impossible," replied Lord
Oldborough, rising deliberately.

The commissioner took his leave, stammering somewhat of "nothing being
impossible for a friend," courtier, he should have said.

The commissioner set to work in earnest about the match he had in view
for John. Not one, but several fair visions flitted before the eye of his
politic mind. The Miss Chattertons--any one of whom would, he knew, come
readily within the terms prescribed, but then they had neither fortune nor
connexions. A relation of Lady Jane Granville's--excellent connexion, and
reasonable fortune; but there all the decorum of regular approaches and
time would be necessary: luckily, a certain Miss Petcalf was just arrived
from India with a large fortune. The general, her father, was anxious
to introduce his daughter to the fashionable world, and to marry her
for connexion--fortune no object to him--delicacies he would waive. The
commissioner saw--counted--and decided--(there was a brother Petcalf, too,
who might do for Georgiana--but for that no hurry)--John was asked by his
father if he would like to be a major in a year, and a lieutenant-colonel
in two years?

To be sure he would--was he a fool?

Then he must be married in a fortnight.

John did not see how this conclusion followed immediately from the
premises, for John was not _quite_ a fool; so he answered "Indeed!" An
_indeed_ so unlike Lord Oldborough's, that the commissioner, struck with
the contrast, could scarcely maintain the gravity the occasion required,
and he could only pronounce the words, "General Petcalf has a daughter."

"Ay, Miss Petcalf--ay, he is a general; true--now I see it all: well, I'm
their man--I have no objection--But Miss Petcalf!--is not that the Indian
girl? Is not there a drop of black blood?--No, no, father," cried John,
drawing himself up, "I'll be d--d...."

"Hear me first, my own John," cried his father, much and justly alarmed,
for this motion was the precursor of an obstinate fit, which, if John took,
perish father, mother, the whole human race, he could not be moved from the
settled purpose of his soul. "Hear me, my beloved John--for you are a man
of sense," said his unblushing father: "do you think I'd have a drop of
black blood for my daughter-in-law, much less let my favourite son--But
there's none--it is climate--all climate--as you may see by only looking at
Mrs. Governor Carneguy, how she figures every where; and Miss Petcalf is
nothing near so dark as Mrs. Carneguy, surely."

"Surely," said John.

"And her father, the general, gives her an Indian fortune to suit an Indian
complexion."

"That's good, at any rate," quoth John.

"Yes, my dear major--yes, my lieutenant-colonel--to be sure that's good. So
to secure the good the gods provide us, go you this minute, dress, and away
to your fair Indian! I'll undertake the business with the general."

"But a fortnight, my dear father," said John, looking into the glass: "how
can that be?"

"Look again, and tell me how it can _not_ be? Pray don't put that
difficulty into Miss Petcalf's head--into her heart I am sure it would
never come."

John yielded his shoulder to the push his father gave him towards the door,
but suddenly turning back, "Zounds! father, a fortnight!" he exclaimed:
"why there won't be time to buy even boots!"

"And what are even boots," replied his father, "to such a man as you? Go,
go, man; your legs are better than all the boots in the world."

Flattery can find her way to soothe the dullest, coldest ear _alive_. John
looked in the glass again--dressed--and went to flatter Miss Petcalf. The
proposal was graciously accepted, for the commissioner stated, as he was
permitted in confidence to the general, that his son was under the special
patronage of Lord Oldborough, who would make him a lieutenant-colonel in
two years. The general, who looked only for connexion and genteel family,
was satisfied. The young lady started at the first mention of an _early
day_; but there was an absolute necessity for pressing that point, since
the young officer was ordered to go abroad in a fortnight, and could not
bear to leave England without completing his union with Miss Petcalf. These
reasons, as no other were to be had, proved sufficient with father and
daughter.

John was presented with a captain's commission. He, before the end of the
fortnight, looked again and again in the glass to take leave of himself,
hung up his flute, and--was married. The bride and bridegroom were
presented to Lord and Lady Oldborough, and went immediately abroad.

Thus the forms of homage and the rights of vassalage are altered; the
competition for favour having succeeded to the dependence for protection,
the feudal lord of ancient times could ill compete in power with the
influence of the modern political patron.

Pending the negotiation of this marriage, and during the whole of this
eventful fortnight, Cunningham Falconer had been in the utmost anxiety that
can be conceived--not for a brother's interests, but for his own: his own
advancement he judged would depend upon the result, and he could not rest
day or night till the marriage was happily completed--though, at the same
time, he secretly cursed all the loves and marriages, which had drawn Lord
Oldborough's attention away from that embassy on which his own heart was
fixed.

Buckhurst, the while, though not admitted behind the scenes, said he
was sufficiently amused by what he saw on the stage, enjoyed the comedy
of the whole, and pretty well made out for himself the double plot. The
confidante, Miss Falconer, played her part to admiration, and prevailed
on Miss Hauton to appear on the appointed day in the character of a
_reasonable woman_; and accordingly she suffered herself to be led, in
fashionable style, to the hymeneal altar by the Marquis of Twickenham. This
dnouement satisfied Lord Oldborough.




CHAPTER X.


The day after his niece's marriage was happily effected, Lord Oldborough
said to his secretary, "Now, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, I have leisure to
turn my mind again to the Tourville papers."

"I was in hopes, my lord," said the secretary (_se composant le visage_),
"I was in hopes that this happy alliance, which secures the Duke of
Greenwich, would have put your lordship's mind completely at ease, and that
you would not have felt it necessary to examine farther into that mystery."

"Weak men never foresee adversity during prosperity, nor prosperity during
adversity," replied Lord Oldborough. "His majesty has decided immediately
to recall his present envoy at that German court; a new one will be sent,
and the choice of that envoy his majesty is graciously pleased to leave to
me.--You are a very young man, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, but you have given
me such _written_ irrefragable proofs of your ability and information, that
I have no scruple in recommending you to his majesty as a person to whom
his interests may be intrusted, and the zeal and attachment your family
have shown me in actions, not in words only, have convinced me that I
cannot choose better for my private affairs. Therefore, if the appointment
be agreeable to you, you cannot too soon make what preparations may be
necessary."

Cunningham, delighted, made his acknowledgments and thanks for the honour
and the favour conferred upon him with all the eloquence in his power.

"I endeavour not to do any thing hastily, Mr. Cunningham Falconer," said
his lordship. "I frankly tell you, that I was not at first prepossessed in
your favour, nor did I feel inclined to do more for you than that to which
I had been induced by peculiar circumstances. Under this prepossession, I
perhaps did not for some time do justice to your talents; but I should be
without judgment or without candour, if I did not feel and acknowledge the
merit of the performance which I hold in my hand."

The performance was a pamphlet in support of Lord Oldborough's
administration, published in Cunningham's name, but the greater part of it
was written by his good genius in the garret.

"On _this_," said Lord Oldborough, putting his hand upon it as it lay
on the table, "on _this_ found your just title, sir, to my esteem and
confidence."

Would not the truth have burst from any man of common generosity, honour,
or honesty?--Would not a man who had any feeling, conscience, or shame,
supposing he could have resolved to keep his secret, at this instant, have
been ready to sink into the earth with confusion, under this unmerited
praise?--In availing himself falsely of a title to esteem and confidence,
then fraudulently of another's talents to obtain favour, honour, and
emolument, would not a blush, or silence, some awkwardness, or some
hesitation, have betrayed him to eyes far less penetrating than those of
Lord Oldborough? Yet nothing of this was felt by Cunningham: he made,
with a good grace, all the disqualifying speeches of a modest author,
repeated his thanks and assurances of grateful attachment, and retired
triumphant.--It must be acknowledged that he was fit for a diplomatist. His
credentials were forthwith made out in form, and his instructions, public
and private, furnished. No expense was spared in fitting him out for his
embassy--his preparations made, his suite appointed, his liveries finished,
his carriage at the door, he departed in grand style; and all Commissioner
Falconer's friends, of which, at this time, he could not fail to have many,
poured in with congratulations on the rapid advancement of his sons, and on
all sides exclamations were heard in favour of _friends in power_.

"True--very true, indeed. And see what it is," said Commissioner Falconer,
turning to Buckhurst, "see what it is to have a son so perverse, that he
will not make use of a good friend when he has one, and who will not accept
the promise of an excellent living when he can get it!"

All his friends and acquaintance now joining in one chorus told Buckhurst,
in courtly terms, that he was a fool, and Buckhurst began to think they
must be right.--"For here," said he to himself, "are my two precious
brothers finely provided for, one an envoy, the other a major _in esse_,
and a lieutenant-colonel _in posse_--and I, _in esse_ and _in posse_,
what?--Nothing but a good fellow--one day with the four in hand club, the
next in my chambers, studying the law, by which I shall never make a penny.
And there's Miss Caroline Percy, who has declined the honour of my hand, no
doubt, merely because I have indulged a little in good company, instead of
immuring myself with Coke and Blackstone, Viner and Saunders, Bosanquet and
Puller, or chaining myself to a special-pleader's desk, like cousin Alfred,
that galley-slave of the law!--No, no, I'll not make a galley-slave of
myself. Besides, at my mother's, in all that set, and in the higher circles
with Hauton and the Clays, and those people, whenever I appear in the
character of a poor barrister, I am scouted--should never have _got on_ at
all, but for my being a wit--a wit!--and have not I wit enough to make my
fortune? As my father says, What hinders me?--My conscience only. And
why should my conscience be so cursedly delicate, so unlike other men's
consciences?"

In this humour, Buckhurst was easily persuaded by his father to take
orders. The paralytic incumbent of Chipping-Friars had just at this time
another stroke of the palsy, on which Colonel Hauton congratulated the
young deacon; and, to keep him in patience while waiting for the third
stroke, made him chaplain to his regiment.--The Clays also introduced him
to their uncle, Bishop Clay, who had, as they told him, taken a prodigious
fancy to him; for he observed, that in carving a partridge, Buckhurst never
touched the wing with a knife, but after nicking the joint, tore it off,
so as to leave adhering to the bone that muscle obnoxious to all good
eaters.--The bishop pronounced him to be "a capital carver."

Fortune at this time threw into Buckhurst's hands unasked, unlooked-for,
and in the oddest way imaginable, a gift of no small value in itself,
and an earnest of her future favours. At some high festival, Buckhurst
was invited to dine with the bishop. Now Bishop Clay was a rubicund,
full-blown, short-necked prelate, with the fear of apoplexy continually
before him, except when dinner was on the table; and at this time a dinner
was on the table, rich with every dainty of the season, that earth, air,
and sea, could provide. Grace being first said by the chaplain, the bishop
sat down "_richly to enjoy_;" but it happened in the first onset, that
a morsel too large for his lordship's swallow stuck in his throat. The
bishop grew crimson--purple--black in the face; the chaplain started up,
and untied his neckcloth. The guests crowded round, one offering water,
another advising bread, another calling for a raw egg, another thumping his
lordship on the back. Buckhurst Falconer, with more presence of mind than
was shown by any other person, saved his patron's life. He blew with force
in the bishop's ear, and thus produced such a salutary convulsion in the
throat, as relieved his lordship from the danger of suffocation [Footnote:
Some learned persons assert that this could not have happened. We can only
aver that it did happen. The assertions against the possibility of the fact
remind us of the physician in Zadig, who, as the fable tells us, wrote a
book to prove that Zadig should have gone blind, though he had actually
recovered the use of his eye.--Zadig never read the book.]. The bishop,
recovering his breath and vital functions, sat up, restored to life and
dinner--he ate again, and drank to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's health, with
thanks for this good service to the church, to which he prophesied the
reverend young gentleman would, in good time, prove an honour. And that he
might be, in some measure, the means of accomplishing his own prophecy,
Bishop Clay did, before he slept, which was immediately after dinner,
present Mr. Buckhurst Falconer with a living worth 400_l._ a year; a living
which had not fallen into the bishop's gift above half a day, and which, as
there were six worthy clergymen in waiting for it, would necessarily have
been disposed of the next morning.

"Oh! star of patronage, shine ever thus upon the Falconers!" cried
Buckhurst, when, elevated with wine in honour of the church, he gave an
account to his father at night of the success of the day.--"Oh! thou, whose
influence has, for us, arrested Fortune at the top of her wheel, be ever
thus propitious!--Only make me a dean. Have you not made my brother, the
dunce, a colonel? and my brother, the knave, an envoy?--I only pray to be a
dean--I ask not yet to be a bishop--you see I have some conscience left."

"True," said his father, laughing. "Now go to bed, Buckhurst; you may, for
your fortune is up."

"Ha! my good cousin Percys, where are you now?--Education, merit, male
and female, where are you now?--Planting cabbages, and presiding at a
day-school: one son plodding in a pleader's office--another cast in an
election for an hospital physician--a third encountering a plague in the
West Indies. I give you joy!"

No wonder the commissioner exulted, for he had not only provided
thus rapidly for his sons, but he had besides happy expectations for
himself.--With Lord Oldborough he was now in higher favour and confidence
than he had ever hoped to be. Lord Oldborough, who was a man little prone
to promise, and who always did more than he said, had, since the marriage
of his niece, thrown out a hint that he was aware of the expense it
must have been to Commissioner and Mrs. Falconer to give entertainments
continually, and to keep open house, as they had done this winter, for
his political friends--no instance of zeal in his majesty's service, his
lordship said, he hoped was ever lost upon him, and, if he continued in
power, he trusted he should find occasion to show his gratitude. This
from another minister might mean nothing but to pay with words; from Lord
Oldborough the commissioner justly deemed it as good as a promissory note
for a lucrative place. Accordingly he put it in circulation directly among
his creditors, and he no longer trembled at the expense at which he had
lived and was living. Both Mrs. Falconer and he had ever considered a good
cook, and an agreeable house, as indispensably necessary to those who would
rise in the world; and they laid it down as a maxim, that, if people wished
to grow rich, they must begin by appearing so. Upon this plan every thing
in their establishment, table, servants, equipage, dress, were far more
splendid than their fortune could afford. The immediate gratification
which resulted from this display, combining with their maxims of policy,
encouraged the whole family to continue this desperate game. Whenever the
timidity of the commissioner had started; when, pressed by his creditors,
he had backed, and had wished to stop in this course of extravagance; his
lady, of a more intrepid character, urged him forward, pleading that he
had gone too far to recede--that the poorer they were, the more necessary
to keep up the brilliant appearance of affluence. How else could her
daughters, after all the sums that had been risked upon them, hope to be
advantageously established? How otherwise could they preserve what her
friend Lady Jane Granville so justly styled the patronage of fashion?

When success proved Mrs. Falconer to be right, "Now, Commissioner
Falconer! Now!" How she triumphed, and how she talked! Her sons all in
such favour--her daughters in such fashion! No party without the Miss
Falconers!--Miss Falconers must sing--Miss Falconers must play--Miss
Falconers must dance, or no lady of a house could feel herself happy,
or could think she had done her duty--no piano, no harp could draw such
crowds as the Miss Falconers. It was the ambition among the fashionable
men to dance with the Miss Falconers, to flirt with the Miss Falconers.
"Not merely flirting, ma'am," as Mrs. Falconer said, and took proper pains
should be heard, "but several serious proposals from very respectable
quarters:" however, none _yet_ exactly what she could resolve to accept for
the girls--she looked high for them, she owned--she thought she had a right
to look high. Girls in fashion should not take the first offers--they
should hold up their heads: why should they not aspire to rank, why not to
title, as well as to fortune?

Poor Petcalf! General Petcalf's son had been for some time, as it was well
known, desperately in love with Miss Georgiana Falconer; but what chance
had he now? However, he was to be _managed_: he was useful sometimes, as
a partner, "to whom one may say one is engaged when a person one does not
choose to dance with asks for the honour of one's hand--useful sometimes
to turn over the leaves of the music-book--useful always as an attendant
in public places--useful, in short, to be exhibited as a captive; for one
captive leads to another conquest." And Miss Arabella Falconer, too, could
boast her conquests, though nobody merely by looking at her would have
guessed it: but she was a striking exemplification of the truth of Lady
Jane Granville's maxim, that fashion, like Venus's girdle, can beautify any
girl, let her be ever so ugly.

And now the Falconer family having risen and succeeded beyond their most
sanguine hopes by a combination of lucky circumstances, and by adherence to
their favourite system, we leave them fortified in their principles, and at
the height of prosperity.




CHAPTER XI.


Fortune, as if she had been piqued by Mr. Percy's disdain, and jealous of
his professed reliance upon the superior power of her rival, Prudence,
seemed now determined to humble him and all his family, to try if she could
not force him to make some of the customary sacrifices of principle to
propitiate her favour.

Unsuspicious of the designs that were carrying forward against him in
secret, Mr. Percy had quite forgotten his fears that his wicked relation
Sir Robert Percy, and Solicitor Sharpe, might take advantage of the loss
of that deed which had never been found since the night of the fire at
Percy-hall. It was nearly two years afterwards that Mr. Percy received a
letter from his cousin, Sir Robert, informing him that he had been advised
to dispute the title to the Percy estate, that he had the opinion of the
first lawyers in England in his favour, and that he had given directions to
his solicitor, Mr. Sharpe, to commence a suit to reinstate the lawful heir
in the property of his ancestors.--Sir Robert Percy added something about
his reluctance to go to law, and a vast deal about candour, justice, and
family friendship, which it would be needless and unreasonable to repeat.

Fresh search was now made for the lost deed, but in vain; and in vain
Rosamond reproached herself with having betrayed the secret of that loss to
the revengeful attorney.--The ensuing post brought notice from Mr. Sharpe
that proceedings were commenced.--In Sir Robert's letter, though not in the
attorney's, there was obviously left an opening for an offer to compromise;
this was done either with intent to lure Mr. Percy on to make an offer,
which might afterwards appear against him, or it was done in the hope that,
intimidated by the fear of an expensive and hazardous suit, Mr. Percy might
give up half his estate, to secure the quiet possession of the remainder.
But they knew little of Mr. Percy who argued in this manner: he was neither
to be lured nor intimidated from his right--all compromise, "all terms of
commerce he disdained." He sent no answer, but prepared to make a vigorous
defence. For this purpose he wrote to his son Alfred, desiring him to spare
no pains or expense, to engage the best counsel, and to put them in full
possession of the cause. Alfred regretted that he was not of sufficient
standing at the bar to take the lead in conducting his father's cause: he,
however, prepared all the documents with great care and ability. From time
to time, as the business went on, he wrote to his father in good spirits,
saying that he had excellent hopes they should succeed, notwithstanding
the unfortunate loss of the deed; that the more he considered the case,
the more clearly the justice of their cause and the solidity of their
right appeared. Alas! Alfred showed himself to be but a young lawyer, in
depending so much upon right and justice, while a point of law was against
him. It is unnecessary, and would be equally tedious and unintelligible
to most readers, to dwell upon the details of this suit. Contrary to the
usual complaints of the law's delay, this cause went through the courts
in a short time, because Mr. Percy did not make use of any subterfuge to
protract the business. A decree was given in favour of Sir Robert Percy,
and he became the legal possessor of the great Percy estate in Hampshire,
which had been so long the object of his machinations.

Thus, at one stroke, the Percy family fell from the station and affluence
which they had so long, and, in the opinion of all who knew them, so well
enjoyed. Great was the regret among the higher classes, and great, indeed,
the lamentations of the poor in the neighbourhood, when the decree was
made known. It seemed as if the change in their situation was deplored
as a general misfortune, and as if it were felt by all more than by the
sufferers themselves, who were never seen to give way to weak complaints,
or heard to utter an invective against their adversary. This magnanimity
increased the public sympathy, and pity for them was soon converted into
indignation against Sir Robert Percy. Naturally insolent, and now elated
with success, he wrote post after post to express his impatience to come
and take possession of his estate, and to hasten the departure of his
relations from the family seat. This was as cruel as it was unnecessary,
for from the moment when they learnt the event of the trial, they had been
occupied with the preparations for their departure; for the resignation
of all the conveniences and luxuries they possessed, all the pleasures
associated with the idea of home; for parting with all the animate and
inanimate objects to which they had long and early habits of affection and
attachment. This family had never been proud in prosperity, nor were they
abject in adversity: they submitted with fortitude to their fate; yet they
could not, without regret, leave the place where they had spent so many
happy years.

It had been settled that the improvements which Mr. Percy had made on the
estate, the expense of the buildings and furniture at Percy-hall, of which
a valuation had been made, should be taken in lieu of all arrears of rent
to which Sir Robert might lay claim. In consequence of this award, Mr.
Percy and his family were anxious to leave every thing about the house and
place in perfect order, that they might fulfil punctually their part of
the agreement. The evening before they were to quit Percy-hall, they went
into every room, to take a review of the whole. The house was peculiarly
convenient and well arranged. Mr. Percy had spared nothing to render it
in every respect agreeable, not only to his guests, but to his family, to
make his children happy in their home. His daughters' apartments he had
fitted up for them in the neatest manner, and they had taken pleasure
in ornamenting them with their own work and drawings. They felt very
melancholy the evening they were to take leave of these for ever. They took
down some of their drawings, and all the little trophies preserved from
childhood, memorials of early ingenuity or taste, which could be of no use
or value to any one except to themselves; every thing else they agreed
to leave as usual, to show how kind their father had been to them--a
sentiment well suited to their good and innocent minds. They opened their
writing-tables and their drawing-boxes for the last time; for the last time
they put fresh flowers into their flower-pots, and, with a sigh, left their
little apartments.

All the family then went out to walk in the park and through the
shrubberies. It was a delightful summer's evening; the birds were
singing--"Caring little," as Rosamond said, "for our going away." The sun
was just setting, and they thought they had never seen the place look so
beautiful. Indeed Mr. and Mrs. Percy had, for many years, delighted in
cultivating the natural beauties of this picturesque situation, and their
improvements were now beginning to appear to advantage. But they were never
to enjoy the success of their labours! The old steward followed the family
in this walk. He stopped every now and then to deplore over each fine tree
or shrub as they passed, and could scarcely refrain from bursting into
invectives against _him_ that was coming after them into possession.

"The whole country cries shame upon the villain," John began; but Mr.
Percy, with a smile, stopped him.

"Let us bear our misfortunes, John, with a good grace; let us be thankful
for the happiness which we have enjoyed, and submit ourselves to the will
of Providence. Without any hypocrisy or affected resignation, I say, at
this instant, what with my whole heart I feel, that I submit, without
repining, to the will of God, and firmly believe that all is for the best."

"And so I strive to do," said John. "But only, I say, if it had pleased God
to order it otherwise, it's a pity the wicked should come _just_ after us
to enjoy themselves, when they have robbed us of all."

"Not of all," said Mr. Percy.

"What is it they have not robbed us of?" cried John: "not a thing but they
must have from us."

"No; the best of all things we keep for ourselves--it cannot be taken from
us--a good conscience."

"Worth all the rest--that's true," said John; "and that is what he will
never have who is coming here to-morrow--never--never! They say he don't
sleep at nights. But I'll say no more about him, only--he's not a good
man."

"I am sure, John, you are not a good courtier," said Mrs. Percy, smiling:
"you ought to prepare to pay your court to your new master."

"_My_ new master!" cried John, growing red: "the longest day ever I live,
I'll never have a new master! All that I have in the world came from you,
and I'll never have another master. Sure you will let me follow you? I will
be no trouble: though but little, may be I can do something still. Surely,
madam--surely, sir--young ladies, you'll speak for me--I shall be let
to follow the fortunes of the family, and go along with you into
_banishment_."

"My good John," said Mr. Percy, "since you desire to follow us into
_banishment_, as you call it, you shall; and as long as we have any thing
upon earth, you shall never want. You must stay here to-morrow, after we
are gone, to give up possession." (John could not stand this, but turned
away to hide his face.) "When your business is done," continued Mr. Percy,
"you may set out and follow us as soon as you please."

"I thank you, sir, kindly," said John, with a most grateful bow, that took
in all the family, "that's new life to me."

He said not a word more during the rest of the walk, except just as he
passed near the beach where the ship was wrecked, he exclaimed, "There was
the first beginning of all our misfortune: who would have thought that when
we gave them shelter we should be turned out so soon ourselves? 'twas that
drunken rascal of a Dutch carpenter was the cause of all!"

The next morning the whole family set out in an open carriage, which had
been made for the purpose of carrying as many of the young people as
possible upon excursions of pleasure. It was a large sociable, which they
used to call their _caravan_.

At the great gate of the park old John stopped the carriage, and leaning
over to his master, whispered, "I beg your pardon, sir, but God bless you,
and don't drive through the village: if you please, take the back road; for
I've just learned that _he_ is on the great road, and as near hand as the
turn at the school-house, and they say he wants to be driving in his coach
and four through the village as you are all going out--now I wouldn't for
any thing he had that triumph over us."

"Thank you, good John," said Mr. Percy, "but such triumphs cannot mortify
us."

Poor John reluctantly opened the gate and let the carriage pass--they drove
on--they cast a lingering look behind as they quitted the park--

  --"Must I then leave thee, Paradise?"--

As they passed through the village the poor people came out of their houses
to take leave of their excellent landlord; they flocked round the carriage,
and hung upon it till it stopped, and then, with one voice, they poured
forth praises, and blessings, and prayers for better days. Just at this
moment Sir Robert Percy made his appearance. His equipage was splendid; his
coachman drove his four fine horses down the street, the middle of which
was cleared in an instant. The crowd gazed at the show as it passed--Sir
Robert gave a signal to his coachman to drive slower, that he might
longer enjoy the triumph--he put his head out of the coach window, but no
one cried, "God bless him!" His insolence was obviously mortified as he
passed the Percy family, for Mr. Percy bowed with an air of dignity and
cheerfulness which seemed to say, "My fortune is yours--but I am still
myself." Some of the spectators clapped their hands, and some wept.

Mr. Percy seemed to have prepared his mind for every circumstance of
his departure, and to be perfectly composed, or at least master of his
feelings; but a small incident, which had not been foreseen, suddenly moved
him almost to tears: as they crossed the bridge, which was at the farthest
end of the village, they heard the muffled bells of the church toll as if
for a public calamity [Footnote: On Mr. Morris's departure from Piercefield
the same circumstance happened.]. Instantly recollecting the resentment to
which these poor people were exposing themselves, by this mark of their
affection and regret, Mr. Percy went by a short path to the church as
quickly as possible, and had the bells unmuffled.




CHAPTER XII.


Mr. Percy fortunately possessed, independently of the Percy estate, a farm
worth about seven or eight hundred a year, which he had purchased with part
of his wife's fortune; on which he had built a lodge, that he had intended
for the future residence of one of his sons. _The Hills_ was the name of
this lodge, to which all the family now retired. Though it was in the same
county with Percy-hall, Clermont-park, Falconer-court, Hungerford-castle,
and within reach of several other gentlemen's seats, yet from its being
in a hilly part of the country, through which no regular road had been
made, it was little frequented, and gave the idea not only of complete
retirement, but of remoteness. Though a lonely situation, it was, however,
a beautiful one. The house stood on the brow of a hill, and looked into
a deep glen, through the steep descent of which ran a clear and copious
rivulet rolling over a stony bed; the rocks were covered with mountain
flowers, and wild shrubs--But nothing is more tiresome than a picture in
prose: we shall, therefore, beg our readers to recall to their imagination
some of the views they may have seen in Wales, and they will probably
have a better idea of this place than any that we could give by the most
laboured description, amplified with all the epithets in the English
language.

The house at the Hills, though finished, was yet but scantily furnished,
and was so small that it could hardly hold the family, who were now obliged
to take refuge in it. However, they were well disposed to accommodate each
other: they had habits of order, and had so little accustomed themselves to
be waited upon, that this sudden change in their fortune and way of life
did not appear terrible, as it would to many in the same rank. Undoubtedly
they felt the loss of real conveniences, but they were not tormented with
ideal wants, or with the pangs of mortified vanity. Evils they had to bear,
but they were not the most dreadful of all evils--those of the imagination.

Mr. Percy, to whom his whole family looked for counsel and support, now
showed all the energy and decision of his character. What he knew must be
done sooner or later he did decidedly at first. The superfluities to which
his family had been accustomed, were instantly abandoned. The great torment
of decayed gentry is the remembrance of their former station, and a weak
desire still to appear what their fortune no longer allows them to be.
This folly Mr. Percy had not to combat in his family, where all were eager
to resign even more of their own comforts than the occasion required. It
was the object now for the family who were at home to live as frugally as
possible, that they might save as much of their small income as they could,
to assist and forward the sons in their professions.

The eldest son, Godfrey, could not yet have heard of the change in his
father's fortune, and in his own expectations; but from a passage in his
last letter, it was evident that he had some idea of the possibility of
such a reverse, and that he was preparing himself to live with economy.
From Alfred and Erasmus Mr. Percy had at this trying time the satisfaction
of receiving at once the kindest and the most manly letters, containing
strong expressions of gratitude to their father for having given them such
an education as would enable them, notwithstanding the loss of hereditary
fortune, to become independent and respectable. What would have been the
difference of their fate and of their feelings, had they been suffered to
grow up into mere idle lounging gentlemen, or four-in-hand coachmen! In
different words, but with the same spirit, both brothers declared that this
change in the circumstances of their family did not depress their minds,
but, on the contrary, gave them new and powerful motives for exertion. It
seemed to be the first wish of their souls to fulfil the fond hopes and
predictions of their father, and to make some return for the care their
parents had taken of their education.

Their father, pleased by the sanguine hopes and ardent spirit expressed in
their letters, was, however, sensible that a considerable time must elapse
before they could make any thing by law or medicine. They were as yet only
in the outset of their professions, the difficult beginning, when men must
toil often without reward, be subject to crosses and losses, and rebukes
and rebuffs, when their rivals push them back, and when they want the
assistance of friends to help them forward, whilst with scarcely the means
to live they must appear like gentlemen.

Besides the faithful steward, two servants, who were much attached to the
family, accompanied them to their retirement. One was Mrs. Harte, who had
lived with Mrs. Percy above thirty years; and who, from being a housekeeper
with handsome wages and plenary power over a numerous household at
Percy-hall, now served with increased zeal at the Hills, doing a great
part of the work of the house herself, with the assistance only of a stout
country girl newly hired, whose awkwardness and ignorance, or, as Mrs.
Harte expressed it, whose _comical_ ways, she bore with a patience that
cost her more than all the rest. The other servant who followed the altered
fortunes of the Percy family was a young man of the name of Johnson, whom
Mr. Percy had bred up from a boy, and who was so creditable a servant that
he could readily have obtained a place with high wages in any opulent
family, either in the country or in London; but he chose to abide by his
master, who could now only afford to give him very little. Indeed, Mr.
Percy would not have kept any man-servant in his present circumstances, but
out of regard for this young man, who seemed miserable at the thoughts of
leaving him, and who undertook to make himself useful in the farm as well
as in the house.

Very different was Johnson from the present race of _fine_ town servants,
who follow with no unequal steps the follies and vices of their _betters_;
and who, by their insolence and extravagance, become the just torments of
their masters. Very different was Johnson from some country servants, who
with gross selfishness look solely to their own eating and drinking, and
whose only thought is how to swallow as much and do as little as possible.

As soon as he had settled his home, Mr. Percy looked abroad to a tract of
improveable ground, on which he might employ his agricultural skill. He had
reason to rejoice in having really led the life of a country gentleman. He
understood country business, and he was ably assisted in all the details
of farming and management. Never, in the most prosperous days, did the old
steward seem so fully interested in his master's affairs, so punctual and
active in executing his commands, and, above all, so respectful in his
manner to his master, as now in his fallen fortunes.

It would be uninteresting to readers who are not farmers to enter into a
detail of Mr. Percy's probable improvements. It is enough to say, that
his hopes were founded upon experience, and that he was a man capable of
calculating. He had been long in the habit of keeping accurate accounts,
not such as gentlemen display when they are pleased to prove that their
farm, produces more than ever farm produced before. All the tradesmen
with whom he had dealt were, notwithstanding his change of fortune, ready
to trust him; and those who were strangers, finding themselves regularly
paid, soon acquired confidence in his punctuality. So that, far from being
terrified at having so little, he felt surprised at having still so much
money at his command.--The enjoyment of high credit must surely give more
pleasurable feelings than the mere possession of wealth.

Often, during the first year after he had been deprived of the Percy
estate, Mr. Percy declared, that, as to himself, he had actually lost
nothing; for he had never been expensive or luxurious, his personal
enjoyments were nearly the same, and his active pursuits were not very
different from what they had always been. He had, it is true, less time
than he wished to give to literature, or to indulge in the company and
conversation of his wife and daughters; but even the pain of this privation
was compensated by the pleasure he felt in observing the excellences in
their characters which adversity developed.--It has by some persons been
thought, that women who have been suffered to acquire literary tastes,
whose understandings have been cultivated and refined, are apt to disdain
or to become unfit for the useful minuti of domestic duties. In the
education of her daughters Mrs. Percy had guarded against this danger, and
she now experienced the happy effects of her prudence. At first they had
felt it somewhat irksome, in their change of circumstances, to be forced
to spend a considerable portion of their time in preparations for the mere
business of living, but they perceived that this constraint gave a new
spring to their minds, and a higher relish to their favourite employments.
After the domestic business of the day was done, they enjoyed, with fresh
delight, the pleasures of which it is not in the power of fortune to
deprive us.

Soon after the family were settled at the Hills, they were surprised by
a visit from Commissioner Falconer--_surprised_, because, though they
knew that he had a certain degree of commonplace friendship for them as
relations, yet they were aware that his regard was not independent of
fortune, and they had never supposed that he would come to seek them in
their retirement. After some general expressions of condolence on their
losses, their change of situation, and the inconveniences to which a large
family, bred up, as they had been, in affluence, must suffer in their
present abode, he went out to walk with Mr. Percy, and he then began to
talk over his own family affairs. With polite acknowledgment to Mr. Percy
of the advantage he had derived from his introduction to Lord Oldborough,
and with modestly implied compliments to his own address in turning that
introduction to the best possible account, Mr. Falconer led to the subject
on which he wanted to dilate.

"You see, my dear Mr. Percy," said he, "without vanity I may now venture
to say, my plans for advancing my family have all succeeded; my sons have
risen in the world, or rather have been pushed up, beyond my most sanguine
hopes."

"I give you joy with all my heart," said Mr. Percy.

"But, my good sir, listen to me; your sons might have been in as
advantageous situations, if you had not been too proud to benefit by the
evidently favourable dispositions which Lord Oldborough shewed towards you
and yours."

"Too proud! No, my friend, I assure you, pride never influenced my
conduct--I acted from principle."

"So you are pleased to call it.--But we will not go back to the past--no
man likes to acknowledge he has been wrong. Let us, if you please, look to
the future. You know that you are now in a different situation from what
you were formerly, when you could afford to follow your principles or your
systems. Now, my dear sir, give me leave to tell you that it is your duty,
absolutely your duty, to make use of your interest for your sons. There
is not a man in England, who, if he chose it, might secure for his sons a
better patron than you could."

"I trust," replied Mr. Percy, "that I have secured for my sons what is
better than a good patron--a good education."

"Both are best," said Mr. Falconer. "Proud as you are, cousin Percy, you
must allow this, when you look round and see who rises, and how.--And now
we are by ourselves, let me ask you, frankly and seriously, why do not you
try to establish your sons by patronage?"

"Frankly and seriously, then, because I detest and despise the whole system
of patronage."

"That's very _strong_," said Mr. Falconer. "And I am glad for your sake,
and for the sake of your family, that nobody heard it but myself."

"If the whole world heard me," pursued Mr. Percy, "I should say just the
same. _Strong_--very strong!--I am glad of it; for (excuse me, you are
my relation, and we are on terms of familiarity) the delicate, guarded,
qualifying, trimming, mincing, pouncet-box, gentleman-usher mode of
speaking truth, makes no sort of impression. Truth should always be
strong--speaking or acting."

"Well, well, I beg your pardon; as strong let it be as you please, only let
it be cool, and then we cannot fail to understand one another. I think you
were going to explain to me why you detest and despise what you call the
system of patronage."

"Because I believe it to be ruinous to my country. Whenever the honours of
professions, civil, military, or ecclesiastical, are bestowed by favour,
not earned by merit--whenever the places of trust and dignity in a state
are to be gained by intrigue and solicitation--there is an end of generous
emulation, and consequently of exertion. Talents and integrity, in losing
their reward of glory, lose their vigour, and often their very existence.
If the affairs of this nation were guided, and if her battles were fought
by the corrupt, imbecile creatures of patronage, how would they be
guided?--how fought?--Woe be to the country that trusts to such rulers and
such defenders! Woe has been to every country that has so trusted!--May
such never be the fate of England!--And that it never may, let every honest
independent Englishman set his face, his hand, his heart against this base,
this ruinous system!--I will for one."

"For one!--alas!" said Mr. Falconer, with a sigh meant to be heard, and
a smile not intended to be seen, "what can one do in such a desperate
case?--I am afraid certain things will go on in the world for ever, whether
we benefit by them or not.--And if I grant that patronage is sometimes a
public evil, you must allow that it is often a private benefit."

"I doubt even that," said Mr. Percy; "for those young men who are brought
up to expect patronage in any profession--But," said Mr. Percy, checking
himself, "I forgot whom I am speaking to: I don't wish to say any thing
that can hurt your feelings, especially when you are so kind to come to see
me in adversity, and when you show so much interest in my affairs."

"Oh! pray go on, go on," said the commissioner, smiling, "you will not hurt
me, I assure you: consider I am too firm in the success of my system to be
easily offended on that point--go on!--Those young men who are brought up
to expect patronage in any profession--"

"Are apt to depend upon it too much," continued Mr. Percy, "and
consequently neglect to acquire knowledge. They know that things will be
passed over for them, and they think that they need not be assiduous,
because they are secure of being provided for, independently of their own
exertions; and if they have a turn for extravagance, they may indulge it,
because a place will set all to rights."

"And if they are provided for, and if they do get good places, are they not
well enough off?" said Mr. Falconer: "I'll answer for it, your sons would
think so."

Mr. Percy, with a look of proud humility, replied, "I am inclined to
believe that my sons would not think themselves _well off_, unless they
were distinguished by their own merit."

"To be sure," said Mr. Falconer, correcting himself; "of course I mean that
too: but a young man can never distinguish himself, you know, so well as
when his merit is raised to a conspicuous situation."

"Or disgrace himself so effectually, as when he is raised to a situation
for which he is unprepared and unfit."

The commissioner's brow clouded--some unpleasant reflection or apprehension
seemed to cross his mind. Mr. Percy had no intention of raising any; he
meant no allusion to the commissioner's sons--he hastened to turn what he
had said more decidedly upon his own.

"I have chosen for my sons, or rather they have chosen for themselves,"
continued he, "professions which are independent of influence, and in which
it could be of little use to them. Patrons can be of little advantage to a
lawyer or a physician. No judge, no attorney, can push a lawyer up, beyond
a certain point--he may rise like a rocket, but he will fall like the
stick, if he be not supported by his own inherent powers. Where property or
life is at stake, men will not compliment or even be influenced by great
recommendations--they will consult the best lawyer, and the best physician,
whoever he may be. I have endeavoured to give my Alfred and Erasmus such an
education as shall enable them honestly to work their own way to eminence."

"A friend's helping hand is no bad thing," said Mr. Falconer, "in that hard
and slippery ascent."

"As many friends, as many helping hands, in a fair way, as you please,"
said Mr. Percy: "I by no means would inculcate the anti-social, absurd,
impossible doctrine, that young men, or any men, can or ought to be
independent of the world. Let my sons make friends for themselves, and
enjoy the advantage of mine. I object only to their becoming dependent,
wasting the best years of their lives in a miserable, debasing servitude to
patrons--to patrons, who at last may perhaps capriciously desert them at
their utmost need."

Again, without designing it, Mr. Percy wakened unpleasant recollections in
the mind of the commissioner.

"Ah! there you touch a tender string with me," said Mr. Falconer, sighing.
"I have known something of that in my life. Lord N---- and Mr. G---- did
indeed use me shamefully ill. But I was young then, and did not choose my
friends well. I know more of the world now, and have done better for my
sons--and shall do better, I trust, for myself. In the mean time, my dear
Mr. Percy, let us think of your affairs. Such a man as you should not be
lost here on a farm amongst turnips and carrots. So Lord Oldborough says
and thinks--and, in short, to come to the point at once, I was not sounding
you from idle curiosity respecting patronage, or from any impertinent
desire to interfere with your concerns; but I come, commissioned by Lord
Oldborough, to make an offer, which, I am persuaded, whatever theoretical
objections might occur," said the commissioner, with a significant smile,
"Mr. Percy is too much a man of practical sense to reject. Lord Oldborough
empowers me to say, that it is his wish to see his government supported
and strengthened by men of Mr. Percy's talents and character; that he is
persuaded that Mr. Percy would speak well in parliament; that if Mr. Percy
will join _us_, his lordship will bring him into parliament, and give
him thus an opportunity of at once distinguishing himself, advancing his
family, repairing the injustice of fortune, and serving his country."

Commissioner Falconer made this offer with much pomposity, with the air of
a person sure that he is saying something infinitely flattering, and at the
same time with a lurking smile on his countenance, at the idea of the ease
and certainty with which this offer would induce Mr. Percy to recant all
he had said against patrons and patronage. He was curious to hear how the
philosopher would change his tone; but, to his surprise, Mr. Percy did not
alter it in the least.

He returned his respectful and grateful acknowledgments to Lord Oldborough,
but begged leave totally to decline the honour intended him; he could not,
he said, accept it consistently with his principles--he could not go into
parliament with a view to advance himself or to provide for his family.

The commissioner interrupted to _qualify_, for he was afraid he had spoken
too broadly, and observed that what he had said was quite confidential.

Mr. Percy understood it so, and assured him there was no danger that it
should be repeated. The commissioner was then in a state to listen again
quietly.

Mr. Percy said, that when he was rich, he had preferred domestic happiness
to ambition, therefore he had never stood for the county to which he
belonged; that now he was poor, he felt an additional reason for keeping
out of parliament, that he might not put himself in a situation to be
tempted--a situation where he must spend more than he could afford, and
could only pay his expenses by selling his conscience.

The commissioner was silent with astonishment for some moments after Mr.
Percy ceased speaking. He had always thought his good cousin a singular
man, but he had never thought him a wrongheaded fool till this moment. At
first he was somewhat vexed, for Mr. Percy's sake and for the sake of his
sons, that he refused such an offer; for the commissioner had some of the
feelings of a relation, but more of the habits of a politician, and these
last, in a few moments, reconciled him to what he thought the ruin of his
cousin's prospects in life. Mr. Falconer considered, that if Mr. Percy were
to go into parliament to join their party, and to get near Lord Oldborough,
he might become a dangerous rival. He pressed the matter, therefore, no
longer with urgency, but only just sufficient to enable him to report to
Lord Oldborough that he had executed his commission, but had found Mr.
Percy _impracticable_.




CHAPTER XIII.


However sincere the general pity and esteem for the Percy family, they did
not escape the common lot of mortality; they had their share of blame, as
well as of condolence, from their friends and acquaintance. Some discovered
that all the misfortunes of the family might have been avoided, if they had
listened to good advice; others were quite clear that the lawsuit would
have been decided in Mr. Percy's favour, if he had employed their solicitor
or their barrister; or, in short, if every step of the suit had been
directed differently.

Commissioner Falconer now joined the band of reproaching friends. He did
not blame Mr. Percy, however, for the conduct of the lawsuit, for of that
he confessed himself to be no judge, but he thought he understood the right
way of advancing a family in the world; and on this subject he now took a
higher tone than he had formerly felt himself entitled to assume. Success
gives such rights--especially over the unfortunate. The commissioner said
loudly in all companies, that he had hoped his relation, Mr. Percy, who
certainly was a man of talents, and he was convinced well-intentioned,
would not have shown himself so obstinately attached to his peculiar
opinions--especially to his strange notions of independence, which must
disgust, ultimately, friends whom it was most the interest of his family to
please; that he doubted not that the young men of the Percy family bitterly
regretted that their father would not avail himself of the advantages of
his connexions, of the favourable dispositions, and, to his knowledge,
most _condescending_ offers that had been made to him--offers which, the
commissioner said, he must term really condescending, when he considered
that Mr. Percy had never paid the common court that was expected by a
minister. Other circumstances, too, enhanced the favour: offence had
undoubtedly been given by the ill-timed, injudicious interference of
Captain Godfrey Percy about regimental business--some Major Gascoigne--yet,
notwithstanding this, a certain person, whose steadiness in his friendships
the commissioner declared he could never sufficiently admire, had not, for
the son's errors, changed his favourable opinion or disposition towards the
father.

Mr. Falconer concluded, with a sigh, "There are some men whom the best of
friends cannot serve--and such we can only leave to their fate."

The commissioner now considering Mr. Percy as a person so obstinately odd
that it was unsafe for a rising man to have any thing more to do with
him, it was agreed in the Falconer family, that it was necessary to let
the Percys drop--gently, without making any noise. Mrs. Falconer and her
daughters having always resided in London during the winter, and at some
watering place in summer, knew scarcely any thing of the female part of the
Percy family. Mrs. Falconer had occasionally met Mrs. Percy, but the young
ladies, who had not yet been in town, she had never seen since they were
children. Mrs. Falconer now considered this as a peculiarly fortunate
circumstance, because she should not be blamed for _cutting_ them, and
should escape all the _unpleasantness_ of breaking off an intimacy with
relations.

The commissioner acceded to all his lady's observations, and easily shook
off that attachment, which he had professed for so many years, perhaps
felt, for his _good cousin Percy_--perhaps felt, we say: because we really
believe that he was attached to Mr. Percy while that gentleman was in
prosperity. There are persons who have an exclusive sympathy with the
prosperous.

There was one, however, who, in this respect, felt differently from
the rest of the family. Buckhurst Falconer, with a generous impulse of
affection and gratitude, declared that he would not desert Mr. Percy or any
of the family in adversity; he could never forget how kind they had been
to him when he was in distress. Buckhurst's resentment against Caroline
for her repeated refusals suddenly subsided; his attachment revived with
redoubled force. He protested that he loved her the better for having lost
her fortune, and he reiterated this protestation more loudly, because his
father declared it was absurd and ridiculous. The son persisted, till the
father, though not subject to make violent resolutions, was wrought to
such a pitch as to swear, that if Buckhurst should be fool enough to think
seriously of a girl who was now a beggar, he would absolutely refuse his
consent to the match, and would never give his son a shilling.

Buckhurst immediately wrote to Caroline a passionate declaration of the
constancy and ardour of his attachment, and entreated her permission to
wait upon her immediately.

"Do not sacrifice me," said Buckhurst, "to idle niceties. That I have many
faults, I am conscious; but none, I trust, for which you ought utterly to
condemn me--none but what you can cure. I am ready to be every thing which
you approve. Give me but leave to hope. There is no sacrifice I will not
make to facilitate, to expedite our union. I have been ordained, one living
I possess, and that which Colonel Hauton has promised me will soon come
into my possession. Believe me, I was decided to go into the church by my
attachment--to my passion for you, every scruple, every consideration gave
way. As to the rest, I shall never be deterred from following the dictates
of my heart by the opposition of ambitious parents. Caroline, do not
sacrifice me to idle niceties--I know I have the misfortune not to please
your brother Alfred: to do him justice, he has fairly told me that he does
not think me worthy of _his sister Caroline_. I forgive him, I admire him
for the pride with which he pronounces the words, _my sister Caroline_. But
though she may easily find a more faultless character, she will never find
a warmer heart, or one more truly--more ardently attached."

There was something frank, warm, and generous in this letter, which pleased
Rosamond, and which, she said, justified her good opinion of Buckhurst.
Indeed, the great merit of being ardently attached to her sister Caroline
was sufficient, in Rosamond's eyes, to cover a multitude of sins: and the
contrast between his warmth at this moment, and the coldness of the rest of
his family, struck her forcibly. Rosamond thought that Alfred had been too
severe in his judgment, and observed, that it was in vain to look with a
lantern all over the world for a faultless character--a monster. It was
quite sufficient if a woman could find an honest man--that She was sure
Buckhurst had no faults but what love would cure.

"But love has not cured him of any yet," said Caroline.

"Try marriage," said Rosamond, laughing.

Caroline shook her head. "Consider at what expense that trial must be
made."

At the first reading of Buckhurst's letter Caroline had been pleased with
it; but on a second perusal, she was dissatisfied with the passage about
his parents, nor could she approve of his giving up what he now called his
_scruples_, to obtain a competence for the woman he professed to adore.
She knew that he had been leading a dissipated life in town; that he
must, therefore, be less fit than he formerly was to make a good husband,
and still less likely to make a respectable clergyman. He had some right
feeling, but no steady principle, as Caroline observed. She was grateful
for the constancy of his attachment, and for the generosity he showed in
his whole conduct towards her; nor was she insensible to the urgency with
which Rosamond pleaded in his favour: but she was firm in her own judgment;
and her refusal, though expressed in the terms that could best soften the
pain it must give, was as decided as possible.

Soon after her letter had been sent, she and Rosamond had taken a longer
walk one evening than usual, and, eager in conversation, went on so far
in this wild unfrequented part of the country, that when they saw the sun
setting, they began to fear they should not reach home before it was dark.
They wished to find a shorter way than that by which they went, and they
looked about in hopes of seeing some labourer (some _swinked hedger_)
returning from his work, or a cottage where they could meet with a
guide.--But there was no person or house within sight. At last Caroline,
who had climbed upon a high bank in the lane where they were walking, saw a
smoke rising between some trees at a little distance; and toward this spot
they made their way through another lane, the entrance to which had been
stopped up with furze bushes. They soon came within sight of a poor-looking
cottage, and saw a young woman walking very slowly with a child in her
arms. She was going towards the house, and did not perceive the young
ladies till they were close to her. She turned suddenly when they
spoke--started--looked frightened and confused; the infant began to cry,
and hushing it as well as she could, she answered to their questions with
a bewildered look, "I don't know indeed--I can't tell--I don't know any
thing, ladies--ask at the cottage, yonder." Then she quickened her pace,
and walked so fast to the house, that they could hardly keep up with her.
She pushed open the hatch door, and called "Dorothy! Dorothy, come out."
But no Dorothy answered.--The young woman seemed at a loss what to do; and
as she stood hesitating, her face, which had at first appeared pale and
emaciated, flushed up to her temples. She looked very handsome, but in
ill-health.

"Be pleased, ladies," said she, with diffidence, and trembling from head to
foot, "be pleased to sit down and rest, ladies. One will be in directly who
knows the ways--I am a stranger in these parts."

As soon as she had set the chairs, she was retiring to an inner room, but
her child, who was pleased with Caroline's face as she smiled and nodded at
him, stretched out his little hands towards her.

"Oh! let my sister give him a kiss," said Rosamond. The mother stopped,
yet appeared unwilling. The child patted Caroline's cheek, played with her
hair, and laughed aloud. Caroline offered to take the child in her arms,
but the mother held him fast, and escaped into the inner room, where they
heard her sobbing violently. Caroline and Rosamond looked at one another in
silence, and left the cottage by tacit consent, sorry that they had given
pain, and feeling that they had no right to intrude further. "We can go
home the same way that we came," said Caroline, "and that is better than to
trouble any body."

"Certainly," said Rosamond: "yet I should like to know something more
about this poor woman if I could, without--If we happened to meet Dorothy,
whoever she is."

At this instant they saw an old woman come from a copse near the cottage,
with a bundle of sticks on her back and a tin can in her hand: this was
Dorothy. She saved them all the trouble and delicacy of asking questions,
for there was not a more communicative creature breathing. She in the first
place threw down her faggots, and offered her service to guide the young
ladies home; she guessed they belonged to the family that was newly come
to settle at the Hills, which she described, though she could not tell the
name. She would not be denied the pleasure of showing them the shortest and
safest way, and the only way by which they could get home before it was
night-fall. So they accepted her kind offer, and she trudged on, talking as
she went.

"It is a weary thing, ladies, to live in this lone place, where one does
not see a soul to speak to from one month's end to another--especially to
me that has lived afore now in my younger days in Lon'on. But it's as God
pleases! and I wish none had greater troubles in this world than I--You
were up at the house, ladies? There within at my little place--ay--then
you saw the greatest and the only great trouble I have, or ever had in
this life.--Did not you, ladies, see the young woman with the child in her
arms?--But may be you did not mind Kate, and she's nothing now to look at,
quite faded and gone, though she's only one month past nineteen years of
age. I am sure I ought to know, for I was at her christening, and nursed
her mother. She's of very good parentage, that is, of a farmer's family,
that _has_, as well as his neighbours, that lives a great way off, quite on
the other side of the country. And not a year, at least not a year and a
half ago, I remember Kate Robinson dancing on the green at Squire Burton's
there with the rest of the girls of the village, and without compare the
prettiest and freshest, and most blithsome and innocent of them all. Ay,
she was innocent then, none ever more so, and she had no care, but all
looking kind upon her in this world, and fond parents taking pride in
her--and now look at her what she is! Cast off by all, shamed, and
forgotten, and broken-hearted, and lost as much as if she was in her grave.
And better she was in her grave than as she is."

The old woman now really felt so much that she stopped speaking, and she
was silent for several minutes.

"Ah! dear ladies," said she, looking up at Rosamond and Caroline, "I see
you have kind hearts within you, and I thank you for pitying poor Kate."

"I wish we could do any thing to serve her," said Caroline.

"Ah! miss, that I am afraid you can't--that's what I am afraid none can
now." The good woman paused and looked as if she expected to be questioned.
Caroline was silent, and the old woman looked disappointed.

"We do not like to question you," said Rosamond, "lest we should ask what
you might not like to answer, or what the young woman would be sorry that
you should answer."

"Why, miss, that's very considerate in you, and only that I know it would
be for her benefit, I am sure I would not have said a word--but here I
have so very little to give her, and that little so coarse fare to what
she been used to, both when she was at service, and when she was with her
own people, that I be afraid, weak as she be grown now, she won't do. And
though I have been a good nurse in my day, I think she wants now a bit
better doctor than I be--and then if she could see the minister, to take
the weight off her heart, to make her not fret so, to bid her look up
above for comfort, and to raise her with the hope and trust that God will
have more mercy upon her than her father and mother do have; and to make
her--hardest of all!--forget him that has forsaken her and her little one,
and been so cruel--Oh! ladies, to do all that, needs a person that can
speak to her better and with more authority than I can."

The poor woman stopped again for some minutes, and then recollecting that
she had not told what she had intended to tell, she said, "I suppose,
ladies, you guess now how it be, and I ought to beg pardon for speaking of
such a thing, or such a one, as--as poor Kate is now, to you, young ladies;
but though she is fallen so low, and an outcast, she is not hardened; and
if it had been so that it had pleased Heaven that she had been a wife to
one in her own condition--Oh! what a wife, and what a mother there was
lost in her! The man that wronged her has a deal to answer for. But he has
no thought of that, nor care for her, or his child; but he is a fine man
about London, they say, driving about with colonels, and lords, and dancing
with ladies. Oh! if they saw Kate, one would guess they would not think so
much of him: but yet, may be, they'd think more--there's no saying how the
quality ladies judge on these matters. But this I know, that though he was
very free of his money, and generous to Kate at the first, and even for
some months after he quit the country, till I suppose he forgot her, yet he
has not sent her a guinea for self or child these four months, nor a line
of a letter of any kind, which she pined for more, and we kept thinking
the letters she did write did not get to him by the post, so we sent one
by a grandson of my own, that we knowed would put the letter safe into his
hands, and did, just as the young gentleman was, as my grandson told me,
coming out of a fine house in London, and going, with a long whip in his
hand, to get upon the coach-box of a coach, with four horses too--and he
looks at the letter, and puts it in his pocket, and calls to my boy, 'No
answer now, my good friend--but I'll write by post to her.' Those were the
very words; and then that colonel that was with him laughing and making
game like, went to snatch the letter out of the pocket, saying, 'Show us
that love-letter, Buckhurst'--Lord forgive me! what have I done now?"
said the old woman, stopping short, struck by the sudden change in the
countenance of both her auditors.

"Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is a relation of ours," said Rosamond.

"Dear ladies, how could I think you knew him even?" interrupted the old
woman. "I beg your pardon. Kate says he's not so cruel as he seems, and
that if he were here this minute, he'd be as kind and generous to her as
ever.--It's all forgetfulness just, and giddiness, she says--or, may be, as
to the money, that he has it not to spare."

"To spare!" repeated Caroline, indignantly.

"Lord love her! what a colour she has now--and what a spirit spoke there!
But, ladies, I'd be sorry to hurt the young gentleman; for Kate would
be angry at me for that worse than at any thing. And as to all that has
happened, you know it's nothing extraordinary, but what happens every day,
by all accounts; and young gentlemen, such as he be, thinks nothing of it;
and the great ladies, I know, by what I noticed when I was in sarvice once
in Lon'on myself, the great ladies thinks the better of them for such
things."

"I am not a great lady," said Caroline.

"Nor I, thank God!" said Rosamond.

"Well, for certain, if you are not great, you're good ladies," said the old
woman.

As they were now within sight of their own house, they thanked and
dismissed their loquacious but kind-hearted guide, putting into her
hand some money for poor Kate, Caroline promising to make further
inquiries--Rosamond, without restriction, promising all manner of
assistance, pecuniary, medical, and spiritual.

The result of the inquiries that were made confirmed the truth of all that
old Dorothy had related, and brought to light other circumstances relative
to the seduction and desertion of this poor girl, which so shocked
Rosamond, that in proportion to her former prepossession in Buckhurst's
favour was now her abhorrence; and as if to repair the imprudence with
which she had formerly used her influence over her sister's mind in his
favour, she now went as far on the opposite side, abjuring him with the
strongest expressions of indignation, and wishing that Caroline's last
letter had not gone to Buckhurst, that she might have given her refusal on
this special account, in the most severe and indignant terms the English
language could supply.

Mrs. Percy, however, on the contrary, rejoiced that Caroline's letter had
been sent before they knew any thing of this affair.

"But, ma'am," cried Rosamond, "surely it would have been right for Caroline
to have given this reason for her refusal, and to have declared that this
had proved to her beyond a possibility of doubt that her former objections
to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's principles were too well founded; and it
would have become Caroline to have written with strong indignation. I am
persuaded," continued Rosamond, "that if women would reprobate young men
for such instances of profligacy and cruelty, instead of suffering such
conduct to go under the fine plausible general names of gallantry and
_wildness_, it would make a greater impression than all the sermons that
could be preached. And Caroline, who has beauty and eloquence, _can_
do this with effect. I remember Godfrey once said, that the peculiar
characteristic of Caroline, that in which she differed most from the common
herd of young ladies, is in her power of feeling and expressing virtuous
indignation. I am sure that Godfrey, partial as he is to Mr. Buckhurst
Falconer, would think that Caroline ought, on such an occasion, to set an
example of that proper spirit, which, superior to the fear of ridicule and
fashion, dares to speak the indignation it feels."

"Very well spoken, and better felt, my dear daughter," said Mrs. Percy.
"And Heaven forbid I should lower the tone of your mind, or your honest
indignation against vice; but, Rosamond, my dear, let us be just.--I must
do even those, whom Godfrey calls the common herd of young ladies, the
justice to believe that there are many among them who have good feeling
enough to be angry, very angry, with a lover upon _such an occasion_--angry
enough to write him a most indignant, and, perhaps, very eloquent
letter.--You may recollect more than one heroine of a novel, who discards
her lover upon such a discovery as was made by you last night. It is a
common novel incident, and, of course, from novels every young lady, even,
who might not have _felt_ without a precedent, knows how she ought to
express herself in such circumstances. But you will observe, my dear, that
both in novels and in real life, young ladies generally like and encourage
men of feeling in contradistinction to men of principle, and too often men
of gallantry in preference to men of correct morals: in short, that such a
character as that of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is just the kind of person with
whom many women would fall in love. By suffering this to be thought the
taste of our sex, ladies encourage libertinism in general, more than they
can possibly discourage it by the loudest display of indignation against
particular instances.--If, like your sister Caroline, young ladies would
show that they really do not prefer such men, it would do essential
service. And observe, my dear Rosamond, this can be done by every young
woman with perfect delicacy: but I do not see how she can, with propriety
or good effect, do more. It is a subject ladies cannot well discuss; a
subject upon which the manners and customs of the world are so much at
variance with religion and morality, that entering upon the discussion
would lead to greater difficulties than you are aware of. It is, therefore,
best for our sex to show their disapprobation of vice, and to prove their
sense of virtue and religion by their conduct, rather than to proclaim it
to the world in words. Had Caroline in her letter expressed her indignation
in the most severe terms that the English language could supply, she would
only have exposed herself to the ridicule of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's
fashionable companions, as a prating, preaching prude, without doing the
least good to him, or to any one living."

Rosamond reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps her mother was right.

"But, Caroline, how quietly you sit by, while we are talking of you and
your lover!" cried Rosamond; "I do not know whether to be provoked with
you, or to admire you."

"Admire me, pray," said Caroline, "if you can."

"I do not believe you will ever be in love," said Rosamond. "I confess I
should admire, or, at least, love you better, if you had more feeling,"
added Rosamond, hastily.

"By what do you judge that I want feeling?" said Caroline, colouring
deeply, and with a look and tone that expressed her keen sense of
injustice. "What proof have I ever given you of my want of feeling?"

"No proof, that I can recollect," said Rosamond, laughing; "no proof, but
that you have never been in love."

"Is it a proof I am incapable of feeling, that I have not been in love with
one who has proved himself utterly unworthy of my esteem--against whose
conduct my sister cannot find words sufficiently severe to express her
indignation? Rosamond, my mind inclined towards him at the first reading of
his last letter; but if I had ever given him any encouragement, if I had
loved him, what would have been my misery at this moment!"

"All! my dear, but then if you had been very miserable, I should have
pitied you so much, and loved you so heartily for being in love," said
Rosamond, still laughing--

"Oh! Rosamond," continued Caroline, whose mind was now too highly wrought
for raillery, "is love to be trifled with? No, only by trifling minds or
by rash characters, by those who do not conceive its power--its danger.
Recollect what we have just seen: a young, beautiful woman sinking into the
grave with shame--deserted by her parents--wishing her child unborn. Do you
remember her look of agony when we praised that child? the strongest charm
of nature reversed--the strongest ties dissolved; and love brought her to
this! She is only a poor servant girl. But the highest and the fairest,
those of the most cultivated understandings, of the tenderest hearts,
cannot love bring them down to the same level--to the same fate?--And not
only our weak sex, but over the stronger sex, and the strongest of the
strong, and the wisest of the wise, what is, what has ever been the power,
the delusions of that passion, which can cast a spell over the greatest
hero, throw a blot on the brightest glory, blast in a moment a life of
fame!--What must be the power of that passion, which can inspire genius in
the dullest and the coldest, waken heroism in the most timid of creatures,
exalt to the highest point, or to the lowest degrade our nature--the
bitterest curse, or the sweetest blessing Heaven bestows on us in this
life!--Oh! sister, is love to be trifled with?"

Caroline paused, and Rosamond, for some instants, looked at her and at her
mother in silence; then exclaimed, "All this from Caroline! Are not you
astonished, mother?"

"No," said Mrs. Percy; "I was aware that this was in Caroline's mind."

"I was not," said Rosamond. "She who never spoke of love!--I little
imagined that she thought of it so highly, so seriously."

"Yes, I do think of it seriously, highly may Heaven grant!" cried Caroline,
looking fervently upwards as she spoke with an illuminated countenance.
"May Heaven grant that love be a blessing and not a curse to me! Heaven
grant that I may never, in any moment of selfish vanity, try to excite
a passion which I cannot return! Heaven grant that I never may feel the
passion of love but for one whom I shall entirely esteem, who shall be
worthy to fill my whole soul!"

"Mother," continued Caroline, turning eagerly, and seizing her mother's
hand, "my guide, my guardian, whenever you see me in any, the slightest
inclination to coquetry, warn me--as you wish to save me from that which I
should most dread, the reproaches of my own conscience--in the first, the
very first instance, reprove me, mother, if you can--with severity. And
you, my sister, my bosom friend, do not use your influence to soften, to
open my mind to love; but if ever you perceive me yielding my heart to the
first tenderness of the passion, watch over me, if the object be not every
way worthy of me, my equal, my superior.--Oh! as you would wish to snatch
me from the grave, rouse me from the delusion--save me from disappointment,
regret, remorse, which I know that I could not bear, and live."

Her mother, into whose arms she threw herself, pressed Caroline close to
her heart, while Rosamond, to whom she had given her hand, held it fast,
and stood motionless between surprise and sympathy. Caroline, to whose
usual manners and disposition every thing theatrical or romantic was so
foreign, seemed, as soon as she recollected herself, to be ashamed of the
excessive emotion and enthusiasm she had shown; withdrawing her hand from
her sister, she turned away, and left the room.

Her mother and sister both remained silent for a considerable time, fully
occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. The mother's reverie
looked to the future prospects of her daughter;--confident in Caroline's
character, yet uncertain of her fate, she felt a pleasing yet painful
solicitude.

Rosamond's thoughts turned rather to the past than to the future: she
recollected and compared words and looks, yet found insuperable difficulty
in connecting all she had ever before known or fancied of Caroline with
what she had just seen and heard. Rosamond did not fairly recover from her
surprise, and from her look of perplexity, during a full hour that she
remained absolutely silent, poring upon a screen, upon which she saw
nothing.

She then went in search of Caroline, in hopes of renewing the conversation;
but she found her busied in some of the common affairs of life, and
apparently a different person.

Rosamond, though she made divers attempts, could not lead Caroline back
again to the same train of thought, or tone of expression. Indeed, Rosamond
did not attempt it very skilfully, but rather with the awkward impatience
of one not accustomed to use address. Caroline, intent upon the means of
assisting the poor young woman whom they had seen at the cottage, went
there again as soon as she could, to warn old Dorothy, in the first place,
to be less communicative, and not on any account to mention to any one else
the names and circumstances which she had told them with so little reserve.
Caroline next applied to Dr. Leicester, the vicar of their former parish,
a most amiable and respectable clergyman, who had come from his vicarage,
near Percy-hall, to spend what time he could spare from his duties with
his favourite parishioners; at Caroline's request he willingly went to see
this unhappy young woman, and succeeded in his endeavours to soothe and
tranquillize her mind by speaking to her words of peace. His mild piety
raised and comforted the trembling penitent; and while all prospect of
forgiveness from her parents, or of happiness in this world, was at an end,
he fixed her thoughts on those better hopes and promises which religion
only can afford. Her health appeared suddenly to mend when her mind was
more at ease: but this was only transient, and Dr. Percy, to whom Caroline
applied for his medical opinion, gave little hopes of her recovery.
All that could be done by medicine and proper kindness to assuage her
sufferings during her decline was done in the best manner by Mrs. Percy
and her daughters, especially by Caroline: the young woman, nevertheless,
died in six weeks, and was buried without Buckhurst Falconer's making
any inquiry concerning her, probably without his knowing of her death. A
few days after she was no more, a letter came to her from him, which was
returned unopened by Dorothy, who could just write well enough to make
these words intelligible in the cover:

"SIR,

"Kate Robinson is dead--this four days--your child is with me still, and
well.--She bid me tell you, if ever you asked more concerning her--she left
you her forgiveness on her death-bed, and hopes you will be happy, sir.--

"Your humble servant,

"DOROTHY WHITE."

A bank note of ten pounds was received by Dorothy soon afterwards for the
use of the child, and deep regret was expressed by the father for the death
of its mother. But, as Dorothy said, "that came too late to be of any good
to her."




CHAPTER XIV.


Soon after the death of poor Kate, the attention of the Percy family
was taken up by a succession of different visits; some from their old
neighbours and really affectionate friends, some from among the band of
reproaching condolers. The first we shall mention, who partook of the
nature of both these classes, was Lady Jane Granville: she was a sincere
and warm friend, but a tormenting family adviser and director.

Her ladyship was nearly related to Mr. Percy, which gave her, on this
occasion, rights of which she knew how to avail herself.

To do her justice, she was better qualified to be an adviser and protector
than many who assume a familiar tone and character.

Lady Jane Granville was of high birth and fortune, had always lived in
good company, had seen a great deal of the world, both abroad and at
home; she had a complete knowledge of all that makes people well received
in society, had generalized her observations, and had formed them into
maxims of prudence and politeness, which redounded the more to her credit
in conversation, as they were never committed to writing, and could,
therefore, never be brought to the dangerous test of being printed and
published. Her ladyship valued her own traditional wisdom, and oral
instruction, beyond any thing that can be learned from books. She had
acquired a _tact_, which, disclaiming and disdaining every regular process
of reasoning, led her with admirable certainty to right conclusions in her
own concerns, and thus, in some degree, justified the peremptory tone she
assumed in advising others.

Though by no means pleased with Mr. and Mrs. Percy's answer to several
of her letters of counsel, yet she thought it her duty, as a friend and
relation, to persevere. She invited herself to the Hills, where, with great
difficulty, through scarcely practicable cross roads, she arrived. She was
so much fatigued and exhausted, in body and mind, that during the first
evening she could talk of nothing but her hair-breadth escapes. The next
morning after breakfast, she began with, "My dear Mr. Percy, now I have
a moment's ease, I have a thousand things to say to you. I am very much
surprised that you have thought fit to settle here quite out of the world.
Will you give me leave to speak my mind freely to you on the subject?"

"As freely as you please, my dear Lady Jane, upon any subject, if you will
only promise not to be offended, if we should not coincide in opinion."

"Certainly, certainly; I am sure I never expect or wish any body to submit
to my opinion, though I have had opportunities of seeing something of
the world: but I assure you, that nothing but very particular regard
would induce me to offer my advice. It is a maxim of mine, that family
interference begins in ill-breeding and ends in impertinence, and
accordingly it is a thing I have ever particularly avoided. But with a
particular friend and near relation like you, my dear Mr. Percy, I think
there ought to be an exception. Now, my dear sir, the young people have
just left the room--I can take this opportunity of speaking freely: your
daughters--what will you do with them?"

"Do with them! I beg pardon for repeating your ladyship's words, but I
don't precisely understand your question."

"Well, precise sir, then, in other words, how do you mean to dispose of
them?"

"I don't mean to dispose of them at all," said Mr. Percy.

"Then let me tell you, my good friend," said Lady Jane, with a most
prophetic tone, "let me tell you, that you will live to repent that.--You
know I have seen something of the world--you ought to bring them forward,
and make the most of their birth, family, and connexions, put them in a way
of showing their accomplishments, make proper acquaintance, and obtain for
your girls what I call the patronage of fashion."

"Patronage!" repeated Mr. Percy: "it seems to be my doom to hear of nothing
but patronage, whichever way I turn. What! patronage for my daughters as
well as for my sons!"

"Yes," said Lady Jane, "and look to it; for your daughters will never go on
without it. Upon their first coming out, you should--" Here her ladyship
stopped short, for Caroline and Rosamond returned. "Oh! go on, go on, let
me beg of your ladyship," said Mr. Percy: "why should not my daughters have
the advantage of hearing what you are saying?"

"Well, then, I will tell them candidly that upon their first _coming out_,
it will be an inconceivable advantage, whatever you may think of it, to
have the patronage of fashion! Every day we see many an ugly face, many
a mere simpleton, many a girl who had nothing upon earth but her dress,
become quite charming, when the radiance of fashion is upon them. And there
are some people who can throw this radiance where and on whom they please,
just as easily," said Lady Jane, playing with a spoon she held in her hand,
"just as easily as I throw the sunshine now upon this object and now upon
that, now upon Caroline and now upon Rosamond. And, observe, no eye turns
upon the beauteous Caroline now, because she is left in the shade."

It was Mr. Percy's policy to allow Lady Jane full liberty to finish all she
wished to say without interruption; for when people are interrupted, they
imagine they have much more to add. Let them go on, and they come to the
end of their sense, and even of their words, sooner than they or you could
probably expect.

"Now," continued her ladyship, "to apply to living examples; you know Mrs.
Paul Cotterel?"

"No."

"Well!--Lady Peppercorn?"

"No."

"Nor the Miss Blissets?"

"No."

"That is the misfortune of living so much out of the world!--But there are
the Falconers, we all know them at least--now look at the Miss Falconers."

"Alas! we have not the honour of knowing even the Miss Falconers," said Mr.
Percy, "though they are our cousins."

"Is it possible that you don't know the Miss Falconers?"

"Very possible," replied Mr. Percy: "they live always in town, and we have
never seen them since they were children: except a visit or two which
passed between us just after Mrs. Falconer's marriage, we know nothing even
of her, though we are all acquainted with the commissioner, who comes from
time to time to this part of the country."

"A very clever man is the commissioner in his way," said Lady Jane, "but
nothing to his wife. I can assure you, Mrs. Falconer is particularly well
worth your knowing; for unless maternal rivalship should interfere, I know
few people in the world who could be more useful to your girls when you
_bring them out_. She has a vast deal of address. And for a proof, as I
was going to point out to you, there are the Miss Falconers in the first
circles--asked every where--yet without fortunes, and with no pretensions
beyond, or equal to, what your daughters have--not with half Rosamond's wit
and information--nothing comparable in point of beauty and accomplishments,
to Caroline; yet how they have _got on_! See what fashion can do! Come,
come, we must court her patronage--leave that to me: I assure you I
understand the ways and means."

"I have no doubt of that," said Mr. Percy. "All that your ladyship has said
is excellent sense, and incontrovertible as far as--"

"Oh! I knew you would think so: I knew we should understand one another as
soon as you had heard all I had to say."

"Excellent sense, and incontrovertible, as far as it relates to the means,
but perhaps we may not agree as to the ends; and if these are different,
you know your means, though the best adapted for gaining your objects, may
be quite useless or unfit for the attainment of mine."

"At once, then, we can't differ as to our objects, for it is my object to
see your daughters happily married; now tell me," said Lady Jane, appealing
alternately to Mr. and Mrs. Percy, "honestly tell me, is not this your
object--and yours?"

"Honestly, it is," said Mr. and Mrs. Percy.

"That's right--I knew we must agree there."

"But," said Mrs. Percy, "allow me to ask what you mean by happily married?"

"What do I mean? Just what you mean--what every body means at the bottom of
their hearts: in the first place married to men who have some fortune."

"What does your ladyship mean by _some_ fortune?"

"Why--you have such a strange way of not understanding! We who live in the
world must speak as the world speaks--we cannot recur continually to a
philosophical dictionary, and if we had recourse to it, we should only be
sent from _a_ to _z_, and from _z_ back again to _a_; see _affluence_, see
_competence_, see _luxury_, see _philosophy_, and see at last that you see
nothing, and that you knew as much before you opened the book as when you
shut it--which indeed is what I find to be the case with most books I
read."

Triumphant from the consciousness of having hitherto had all the wit on her
side, Lady Jane looked round, and continued: "Though I don't pretend to
draw my maxims from books, yet this much I do know, that in matrimony, let
people have ever so much sense, and merit, and love, and all that, they
must have bread and butter into the bargain, or it won't do."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Percy: "under that head I suppose you include all
the necessaries of life."

"And some of the luxuries, if you please; for in these days luxuries are
become necessaries."

"A barouche and four, for instance?" said Mrs. Percy.

"Oh! no, no--my dear madam, I speak within bounds; you cannot expect a
barouche and four for girls who have nothing."

"I expect it as little as I wish it for them," said Mrs. Percy, smiling;
"and as little as my daughters, I believe, desire it."

"But if such a thing should offer, I presume you would not wish that
Rosamond or Caroline should refuse?"

"That depends upon _who_ offers it," said Mrs. Percy. "But whatever my
wishes might be, I should, as I believe I safely may, leave my daughters
entirely at liberty to judge and decide for themselves."

"Yes, I believe you safely may," said Lady Jane, "as long as you keep them
here. You might as well talk of leaving them at liberty in the deserts of
Arabia. You don't expect that knights and squires should come hither in
quest of your damsels?"

"Then you would have the damsels sally forth in quest of the knights and
squires?" said Mr. Percy.

"Let them sally forth at any rate," said Lady Jane, laughing; nobody has
a right to ask in quest of what. We are not now in the times of ancient
romance, when young ladies were to sit straight-laced at their looms, or
never to stir farther than to their bower windows."

"Young ladies must now go a great deal farther," said Mr. Percy, "before
the discourteous knights will deign to take any notice of them."

"Ay, indeed, it is shameful!" said Lady Jane sighing. "I declare it is
shameful!" repeated she, indignantly. "Do you know, that last winter at
Bath the ladies were forced to ask the gentlemen to dance?"

"Forced?" said Mr. Percy.

"Yes, forced!" said Lady Jane, "or else they must have sat still all night
like so many simpletons."

"Sad alternative!" said Mr. Percy; "and what is worse, I understand that
partners for life are scarcely to be had on easier terms; at least so I
am informed by one of your excellent modern mothers, Mrs. Chatterton, who
has been leading her three _gawky_ graces about from one watering-place to
another these six years, fishing, and hunting, and hawking for husbands.
'There now! I have carried my girls to Bath, and to London, and to
Tunbridge, and to Weymouth, and to Cheltenham, and every where; I am sure I
can do no more for them.' I assure you," continued Mr. Percy, "I have heard
Mrs. Chatterton say these very words in a room full of company."

"In a room full of company? Shocking!" said Lady Jane. "But then poor
Mrs. Chatterton is a fool, you know; and, what is worse, not _well
mannered_,--how should she? But I flatter myself, if you will trust me
with your daughter Caroline, we should manage matters rather better. Now
let me tell you my plan. My plan is to take Caroline with me immediately
to Tunbridge, previous to her London campaign. Nothing can be a greater
mistake than to keep a young lady _up_, and prevent her being seen till the
moment when she is to be brought out: it is of incalculable advantage that,
previously to her appearance in the great world, she should have been seen
by certain fashionable _prneurs_. It is essential that certain reports
respecting her accomplishments and connexions should have had time to
circulate properly."

All this Mr. and Mrs. Percy acknowledged, in as unqualified a manner as
Lady Jane could desire, was fit and necessary to secure what is called a
young lady's success in the fashionable world; but they said that it was
not their object to _dispose of their daughters_, as it is called, _to the
best advantage_. The arts which are commonly practised for this purpose
they thought not only indelicate, but ultimately impolitic and absurd; for
men in general are now so well aware of them, that they avoid the snares,
and ridicule and detest those by whom they are contrived. If, now and then,
a dupe be found, still the chance is, that the match so made turns out
unhappily; at best, attachments formed in public places, and in the hurry
of a town life, can seldom be founded on any real knowledge of character,
or suitableness of taste and temper. "It is much more probable," added Mrs.
Percy, "that happy marriages should be made where people have leisure
and opportunities of becoming really and intimately acquainted with each
other's dispositions."

"Vastly well!" said Lady Jane: "so you mean to bury your daughters in the
country--to shut them up, at least--all the days of their unfortunate
lives?"

Mr. and Mrs. Percy, both at the same moment, eagerly declared that they
had no such absurd or cruel intention towards their daughters. "On the
contrary," said Mr. Percy, "we shall take every proper occasion, that our
present fortune and situation will allow, of letting them see agreeable and
sensible persons."

"Are they to spring out of the ground, these agreeable and sensible
persons?" said Lady Jane. "Whom do you see in this desert, or expect to
see?"

"We see your ladyship, in the first place," said Mr. Percy: "you cannot
therefore wonder if we are proud enough to expect to see sometimes good
company, persons of merit, and even of fashion, though we have lost our
station and fortune."

"That is very politely turned by you, Mr. Percy. Much more polite than my
desert. But I could not bear the thoughts of your sweet pretty Caroline's
blushing unseen."

"Nor could we," said Mr. Percy, "bear the thoughts of her ceasing to blush
from being too much seen. We could not bear the thoughts of _fitting our
daughters out_, and sending them to the London market, with the portionless
class of matrimonial adventurers, of whom even the few that succeed are
often doomed but to splendid misery in marriage; and the numbers who fail
in their venture are, after a certain time, consigned to neglect and
contempt in single wretchedness. Here, on the contrary, in the bosom of
their own families, without seeking to entice or entrap, they can at all
events never be disappointed or degraded; and, whether married or single,
will be respected and respectable, in youth and age--secure of friends, and
of a happy home."

"Happy nonsense! begging your pardon, my dear coz. Shall I tell you
what the end of all this living in the bosom of their own families will
be?--that they will die old maids. For mercy's sake, my dear Mrs. Percy, do
not let Mr. Percy be philosophical for your daughters, whatever he may be
for himself. You, I am sure, cannot wish your poor daughters to be _old
maids_," said her ladyship, with a tremendous accent upon the word.

"No, I should wish them to marry, if I could ensure for them good husbands,
not merely good fortunes. The warmest wish of my heart," cried Mrs. Percy,
"is to see my daughters as happy as I am myself, married to men of their
own choice, whom they can entirely esteem, and fondly love. But I would
rather see my daughters in their graves than see them throw themselves
away upon men unworthy of them, or sell themselves to husbands unsuited to
them, merely for the sake of being _established_, for the vulgar notion of
_getting married_, or to avoid the imaginary and unjust ridicule of being
old maids."

The warmth and energy with which these last words were spoken, by so gentle
a person as Mrs. Percy, surprised Lady Jane so much, that she was silent;
all her ideas being suddenly at a stand, and her sagacity at fault. Mr.
Percy proposed a walk to show her the Hills; as her ladyship rose to
accompany him, she said to herself, "Who could have guessed that Mrs. Percy
was so romantic?--But she has caught it from her husband.--What a strange
father and mother!--But for the sake of the poor girls, I will not give up
the point. I will have Caroline with me to Tunbridge, and to town, in spite
of their wise heads."

She renewed her attack in the evening after tea. Rising, and walking
towards the window, "A word with you, Mr. Percy, if you please. The
young people are going to walk, and now we can talk the matter over by
ourselves."

"Why should not we talk it over before the young people?" said Mr. Percy.
"We always speak of every thing openly in this family," continued he,
turning to Lady Jane; "and I think that is one reason why we live so
happily together. I let my children know all my views for them, all my
affairs, and my opinions, I may say all my thoughts, or how could I expect
them to trust me with theirs?"

"As to that, children are bound by gratitude to treat their parents with
perfect openness," said Lady Jane; "and it is the duty of children, you
know, to make their parents their confidants upon all occasions."

"Duty and gratitude are excellent things," said Mr. Percy, "but somewhat
more is necessary between parent and child to produce friendship. Recollect
the Duc d'Epernon's reply to his king, who reproached him with want of
affection. 'Sire, you may command my services, my life; but your majesty
knows, friendship is to be won only by friendship.'"

"Very true," said Lady Jane; "but friendship is not, properly speaking, the
connexion that subsists between parents and children."

"I am sorry you think so," said Mr. Percy, smiling: "pray do not teach my
children that doctrine."

"Nay," said Lady Jane, "no matter whether we call it friendship or not; I
will answer for it, that without any refined notions about perfect openness
and confidence, your children will be fond of you, if you are indulgent to
them in certain points. Caroline, my dear," said she, turning to Caroline,
who was at the farthest end of the room, "don't look so unconscious, for
you are a party concerned; so come and kneel at the feet of this perverse
father of yours, to plead your cause and mine--I must take you with me to
Tunbridge. You must let me have her a summer and winter, and I will answer
for Caroline's success."

"What does your ladyship mean by my success?" said Caroline.

"Why, child--Now don't play your father's philosophic airs upon me! We
people who live in the world, and not with philosophers, are not prepared
for such entrapping interrogatories. But come, I mean in plain English,
my dear, though I am afraid it will shock your ears, that you will be"
(speaking loud) "pretty well admired, pretty well abused, and--oh,
shocking!--pretty well married."

"Pretty well married!" repeated Mrs. Percy, in a scornful tone: "but
neither Caroline nor I should be satisfied unless she be very well
married."

"Heyday! There is no knowing where to have you _lady_ philosophers. This
morning you did not desire a coach and four for your daughters, not you;
now you quarrel with me on the other side of the question. Really, for a
lady of moderation, you are a little exorbitant. _Pretty well married_,
you know, implies 2000_l._ a-year; and very well married, nothing under
10,000_l._"

"Is that the language of the market? I did not understand the exact meaning
of _very well married_--did you, Caroline? I own I expect something more
than 10,000_l._ a-year."

"More!--you unconscionable wretch! how much more?" said Lady Jane.

"Infinitely more," said Mr. Percy: "I expect a man of sense, temper, and
virtue, who would love my daughter as she deserves to be loved."

"Let me advise you," said Lady Jane, in her very gravest tone, "not to puff
up Caroline's imagination with a parcel of romantic notions.--I never yet
knew any good done by it. Depend on it you will be disappointed, if you
expect a genius to descend from the clouds express for your daughters. Let
them do as other people do, and they may have a chance of meeting with
some good sort of men, who will make them as happy as--as happy as their
neighbours."

"And how happy is that?" said Caroline: "as happy as we are now?"

"As you are now!" said Lady Jane: "a vastly pretty maidenly speech! But
young ladies, nevertheless, usually think that the saffron robe of Hymen
would not be the most unbecoming dress in the world; and whether it be in
compliance with their daughters' taste, or their own convenience, most
parents are in a hurry to purchase it."

"Sometimes at the expense of their daughters' happiness for life," said
Mrs. Percy.

"Well, lest we should go over the same ground, and get into the same
labyrinth, where we lost ourselves this morning, let me come to the
point at once.--May I hope, Mr. and Mrs. Percy, to have the pleasure of
Caroline's company at Tunbridge next week, and in town next winter, or
not?--That is the question."

"That is a question which your ladyship will be so good as to ask Caroline,
if you please," said Mr. Percy; "both her mother and I wish that she should
decide for herself."

"Indeed?" cried Lady Jane: "then, my dear Caroline, if you please, come
with me this minute to my dressing-room, and we'll settle it all at my
_toilette de nuit_. I have a notion," added her ladyship, as she drew
Caroline's arm within hers, and led her out of the room, "I have a notion
that I shall not find you quite so impracticable as your father has shown
himself."

"You may leave us, Keppel," said Lady Jane to her maid, as she went into
her dressing-room--"I will ring when I want you.--My love," said she to
Caroline, who stood beside her dressing-table, "why did not you let Keppel
dress your hair to-day?--But no matter--when I once get you to town, we'll
manage it all our own way. I have a notion that you are not of a positive
temper."

Caroline coloured at this speech.

"I see what are you thinking of," said Lady Jane, mistaking her
countenance; "and to tell you the truth, I also am sadly afraid, by what
I see, that we shall hardly gain our point. I know your father--some
difficulty will be started, and ten to one he will not allow me to have you
at last, unless you try and persuade him yourself."

"I never try to persuade my father to do any thing."

"What, then, he is not a man to be persuaded?"

"No," said Caroline, smiling; "but what is much better, he is a man to be
convinced."

"Better!" exclaimed Lady Jane: "Why surely you had not rather live with a
man you were to convince than one you could persuade?"

"Would it not be safer?" said Caroline: "the arts of persuasion might be
turned against us by others, but the power of conviction never could."

"Now, my dear, you are too deep for me," replied Lady Jane. "You said very
little in our long debate this morning, and I'm afraid I said too much; but
I own I could not help speaking candidly. Between ourselves, your father
has some notions, which, you know, are a little odd."

"My father!" exclaimed Caroline.

"Yes, my dear, though he is your father, and my relation too, you know
one cannot be quite blinded by partiality--and I never would give up my
judgment."

"Nor would I," said Caroline. "Nor I am sure would my father ever desire
it. You see how freely he permits, he encourages us all to converse with
him. He is never displeased with any of us for being of a different opinion
from him."

"He may not show displeasure," said Lady Jane.

"Oh! he does not feel it, ma'am--I assure you," said Caroline, with
emotion. "You do not know my father, indeed you do not."

"My dear," said Lady Jane, retracting, "I know he is an excellent father,
and I am sure I would have you think so--it is your duty; but, at the same
time, you know he is not infallible, and you must not insist," added she,
sharply, "upon all the world being of one way of thinking.--My dear, you
are his favourite, and it is no wonder you defend him."

"Indeed, ma'am," said Caroline, "if I am his favourite, I do not know it."

"My dear, don't mistake me. It is no wonder that you _are_. You must be a
favourite with every body; and yet," said Lady Jane, and she paused, "as
you hinted, perhaps I am mistaken; I think Rosamond seems--hey?--Now tell
me candidly--which is the favourite?"

"I would if I knew," said Caroline.

"Oh! but there must be some favourite in a family--I know there must; and
since you will not speak, I guess how it is. Perhaps, if I had asked your
sister Rosamond to go to town with me next winter, your father would have
been better pleased, and would have consented more readily."

"To lose her company if she were his favourite?" said Caroline, smiling.

"But you know, my dear," continued Lady Jane, without hearing or attending
to this, "you know, my dear, that Rosamond, though a very good girl and
very sensible, I am sure, yet she has not your personal advantages,
and I could do nothing for her in town, except, perhaps, introduce her
at Mrs. Cator's, and Lady Spilsbury's, or Lady Angelica Headingham's
conversazione--Rosamond has a mixture of navet and sprightliness that is
new, and might _take_. If she had more courage, and would hazard more in
conversation, if she had, in short, _l'art de se faire valoir_, one could
hand her verses about, and get her forward in the bel-esprit line. But
she must stay till we have brought you into fashion, my dear, and another
winter, perhaps--Well, my love, I will not keep you up longer. On Monday,
if you please, we shall go--since you say you are sure your father is in
earnest, in giving you leave to decide for yourself."

What was Lady Jane Granville's astonishment, when she heard Caroline
decline, with polite thanks, her kind invitation!

Her ladyship stood silent with suspended indignation.

"This cannot be your own determination, child?"

"I beg your ladyship's pardon--it is entirely my own. When a person is
convinced by good reasons, those reasons surely become their own. But
independently of all the arguments which I have heard from my father and
mother, my own feelings must prevent me from leaving home in our present
circumstances. I cannot quit my parents and my sister, now they are,
comparatively speaking, in distress. Neither in prosperity nor in adversity
do I wish to leave my family, but certainly not in adversity."

"High-flown notions! Your family is not in any great distress, that I see:
there is a change, to be sure, in the style of life; but a daughter more,
you know only increases the--the difficulties."

"I believe my father and mother do not think so," said Caroline; "and till
they do, I wish to stay with them, and share their fortune, whatever it may
be."

"I have done--as you please--you are to decide for yourself, Miss Caroline
Percy: this is your final determination?"

"It is," said Caroline; "but permit me," added she, taking Lady Jane's
hand, and endeavouring by the kindest tone of gratitude to avert the
displeasure which she saw gathering, "permit me to assure you, that I am
truly grateful for your kindness, and I hope--I am sure, that I never shall
forget it."

Lady Jane drew away her hand haughtily. "Permit me to assure you, Miss
Caroline Percy, that there are few, very few young ladies indeed, even
among my own nearest relations, to whom I would have undertaken to be
_chaperon_. I do not know another young lady in England to whom I would
have made the offer I have made to you, nor would that offer ever have been
made could I reasonably have foreseen the possibility of its being refused.
Let us say no more, ma'am, if you please--we understand one another
now--and I wish you a good night."

Caroline retired, sorry to have displeased one who had shown so much
friendly eagerness to serve her, yet not in the least disposed to change
her determination. The next day Lady Jane's morning face boded no good.
Mr. and Mrs. Percy in vain endeavoured by all the kind attentions in their
power to assuage her feelings, but nothing restored her to that sweet
temper in which she had begun the chapter of advice. She soon announced
that she had received letters which called her immediately to Tunbridge,
and her ladyship quitted the Hills, resolving never more to visit relations
who would not be guided by her opinion.

The next persons who came to visit the Percy family in their retirement
were Mrs. Hungerford and her daughter, Mrs. Mortimer, who had been friends
and near neighbours whilst they resided at Percy-hall, and whose society
they had particularly regretted. The distance at which they now lived from
Hungerford Castle was such, that they had little hope that any intercourse
could be kept up with its inhabitants, especially as Mrs. Hungerford had
arrived at that time of life when she was exempted from the ceremony of
visiting, and she seldom stirred from home except when she went to town
annually to see her daughter Mortimer.

"So," said Mrs. Hungerford, as Mr. Percy helped her out of her carriage,
"my good friend, you are surprised at seeing me, are you?--Ah! you thought
I was too old or too lazy to come; but I am happy to be able to convince
you that you are mistaken. See what motive will do! You know Mr. Percy
says, that people can do any thing they please, and it is certain that it
pleased me to do this."

When she was seated, and Mrs. Percy spoke of the distance from which
she had kindly come to see them, she answered, "I hear people talk of a
_visiting distance_; and I understand perfectly well what it means when
acquaintance are in question, but for friends there is no _visiting
distance_. Remove to the Land's End, and, old as I am, I will pursue and
overtake you too, tortoise as I seem; and don't depend upon dark nights,
for every night is full moon to me, when I am bent upon a visit to a
friend; and don't depend upon hills--there are no Pyrenees between us."

These sound, perhaps, like mere civil speeches, but they came from one who
always spoke sincerely, and who was no common person. Mrs. Hungerford was,
by those who did not know her, thought proud; those who did, knew that she
had reason to be proud. She was of noble descent, dignified appearance,
polite manners, strong understanding, and high character. Her fortune,
connexions, various knowledge, and extraordinary merit, had, during a long
life, given her means of becoming acquainted with most of the persons of
any celebrity or worth in her own or in foreign countries. No new candidate
for fame appeared in any line of life, without desiring to be noticed by
Mrs. Hungerford; no traveller of distinction or of literature visited
England without providing himself with letters of introduction to Mrs.
Hungerford, and to her accomplished daughter, the wife of Admiral Mortimer.
In her early youth she had passed some years abroad, and had the vivacity,
ease, polish, _tact_, and _esprit de socit_ of a Frenchwoman, with the
solidity of understanding, amiable qualities, domestic tastes, and virtues
of an Englishwoman. The mutual affection of this mother and daughter not
only secured their own happiness, but diffused an additional charm over
their manners, and increased the interest which they otherwise inspired.
Mrs. Mortimer's house in London was the resort of the best company, in the
best sense of the word: it was not that dull, dismal, unnatural thing, an
English _conversazione_, where people are set, against their will and their
nature, to talk wit; or reduced, against their pride and their conscience,
to worship _idols_. This society partook of the nature of the best English
and the best French society, judiciously combined: the French mixture of
persons of talents and of rank, men of literature and of the world; the
French habit of mingling feminine and masculine subjects of conversation,
instead of separating the sexes, far as the confines of their prison-room
will allow, into hostile parties, dooming one sex to politics, argument,
and eternal sense, the other to scandal, dress, and eternal nonsense. Yet
with these French manners there were English morals; with this French ease,
gaiety, and politeness, English sincerity, confidence, and safety: no
_simagre_, no _espionnage_; no intrigue, political or gallant; none of
that profligacy, which not only disgraced, but destroyed the _reality_ of
pleasure in Parisian society, at its most brilliant era. The persons of
whom Mrs. Mortimer's society was formed were, in their habits and good
sense, so thoroughly English, that, even had it been possible for them
to put morality and religion out of the question, they would still have
thought it quite as convenient and agreeable to love their own husbands
and wives as to play at cross-purposes in gallanting their neighbours'. Of
consequence, Mrs. Mortimer, in the bloom of youth and height of fashion,
instead of being a coquette, "hunting after men with her eyes," was
beloved, almost to adoration, as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend.
Mrs. Hungerford, at an advanced age, was not a wretched, selfish Madame
du Deffand, exacting _hommage_ and _attentions_, yet disbelieving in the
existence of friendship; complaining in the midst of all the luxuries of
life, mental and corporeal, of being oppressed by ennui, unable to find any
one to love and esteem, or incapable of loving and esteeming any one; Mrs.
Hungerford, surrounded

  "With all that should accompany old age,
  As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends."

was, as she often declared, with gratitude to Providence, happier in age
than she had been even in youth. With warm affections, and benevolence
guided and governed in its objects by reason and religion; indulgent
to human nature in general, and loving it, but not with German
cosmopolitism--first and best, loving her daughter, her family, comprising
a wide and happy extent of relations and connexions, sons and nephews in
the army and navy, or in different employments in the state: many of these
young men already distinguished, others wanting only opportunity to do
equal honour to their name.

During the summer, Mrs. Mortimer usually spent some months at Hungerford
Castle, and generally took with her from town some friends whose company
she thought would peculiarly suit her mother's taste. Mrs. Hungerford had
always been in the habit of inviting the Percy family, whenever she had any
body with her whom she thought they would wish to see or hear; and thus
the young people, though living retired in the country, had enjoyed the
advantages of becoming early acquainted with many celebrated literary and
public characters, and of living in the best society; these were advantages
which they obtained from their education and their merit; for assuredly
Mrs. Hungerford would never have troubled herself with them merely because
they were her neighbours, possessing so many thousand pounds a year, and
representatives of the Percy interest in the county.--A proof of which, if
any were wanting, is, that she never took the least notice of those who now
held their place at Percy-hall; and the first visit she paid when she came
to the country, the first visit she had been known to pay for years, was
to her friends the Percys, after they had lost their thousands per annum.
So completely was it themselves and not their fortune which she had always
considered, that she never condoled with them, and scarcely seemed to
advert to any change in their circumstances. She perceived, to be sure,
that she was not at Percy-hall; she discovered, probably, that she was in
a small instead of a large room; the change of prospect from the windows
struck her eye, and she remarked that this part of the country was more
beautiful than that to which she had been accustomed.--As to the more or
less of show, of dress, or equipage, these things did not merely make
no difference in Mrs. Hungerford's estimation of persons, but in fact
scarcely made any impression upon her senses or attention. She had been
so much accustomed to magnificence upon a large scale, that the different
subordinate degrees were lost upon her; and she had seen so many changes
of fashion and of fortune, that she attached little importance to these.
Regardless of the drapery of objects, she saw at once what was substantial
and essential. It might, she thought, be one man's taste to visit her in
a barouche and four, with half-a-dozen servants, and another person's
pleasure to come without parade or attendants--this was indifferent to her.
It was their conversation, their characters, their merit, she looked to;
and many a lord and lady of showy dress and equipage, and vast importance
in their own opinions, shrunk into insignificance in the company of Mrs.
Hungerford; and, though in the room with her, passed before her eyes
without making a sufficient sensation upon her organs to attract her
notice, or to change the course of her thoughts.

All these _peculiarities_ in this lady's character rendered her
particularly agreeable to the Percy family in their present circumstances.
She pressed them to pay her a long visit.

"You see," said Mrs. Hungerford, "that I had the grace to forbear asking
this favour till I had possession of my daughter Mortimer, and could bring
her with me to entice you.--And my dear young friends, you shall find
young friends too, as well as old ones, at my house: my nieces, the Lady
Pembrokes, are to be with me; and Lady Angelica Headingham, who will
entertain you, though, perhaps, you will sometimes be tired _for_ her, she
works so hard _aux galres de bel-esprit_. I acknowledge she has a little
too much affectation. But we must have charity for affectation and its
multitude of foibles; for, you know, Locke says that it is only a mistaken
desire to please. Angelica will find out her mistakes in time, and after
trying all manners, will hold fast by the best--that is, the most natural:
in the mean time, do you, my dear young friends, come and admire her as an
inimitable actress. Then, Mr. Percy, I have for you three temptations--a
man of letters, a man of science, and a man of sense. And, for the climax
of my eloquence, I have reserved," continued she turning to Mrs. Percy, "my
appeal to the mother's feelings. Know, then, that my son, my eldest hope,
my colonel, has arrived from the continent--landed last night--I expect
him home in a few days, and you must come and flatter me that he is
prodigiously improved by the service he has seen, and the wounds which he
can show, and assure me that, next to your own Godfrey, you would name my
Gustavus, of all the officers in the army, as most deserving to be our
commander-in-chief."

An invitation, which there were so many good and kind reasons for
accepting, could not be refused. But before we go to Hungerford Castle, and
before we see Colonel Hungerford--upon whom, doubtless, many a one at this
instant, as well as Rosamond Percy, has formed designs or prognostics in
favour of Caroline--we must read the following letter, and bring up the
affairs of Alfred and Erasmus.




CHAPTER XV.


LETTER FROM ALFRED PERCY TO HIS MOTHER.

"My Dear Mother,

"I am shocked by your story of Kate Robinson. I agree with you in rejoicing
that Caroline had sufficient penetration to see the faults of Buckhurst
Falconer's character, and steadiness enough, notwithstanding his agreeable
talents, never to give him any encouragement. I agree with you, also, that
it was fortunate that her last letter to him was written and sent before
this affair came to her knowledge. It was much better that she should abide
by her objection to his general principles than to have had explanations
and discussions on a subject into which she could not enter with propriety.

"I will, as you desire, keep Buckhurst's secret. Indeed, in a worldly point
of view, it behoves him that it should be carefully kept, because Bishop
Clay, the prelate, who gave him his present living, though he tolerates
gormandizing to excess, is extremely strict with his clergy _in other
matters_; and, as I once heard Buckhurst say,

  'Compounds for sins he is inclin'd to,
  By damning those he has no mind to.'

"Buckhurst had, I believe, hopes that Caroline would have relented, in
consequence of his last overture; he was thrown into despair by her
answer, containing, as he told me, such a calm and civil repetition of her
refusal--that he swears he will never trouble her again. For a fortnight
after, he protests he was ready to hang himself. About that time, I
suppose, when he heard of Kate Robinson's death, he shut himself up in his
rooms for several days--said he was not well, and could not see any body.
When he came out again, he looked wretchedly ill, and unhappy: I pitied
him--I felt the truth of what Rosamond said, 'that there is such a mixture
of good and bad in his character, as makes me change my opinion of him
every half hour.'

"He has just done me an essential service. He learnt the other day from
one of his sisters the secret reason why Lord Oldborough was displeased
with Godfrey, and why Godfrey was despatched to the West Indies.--Lord
Oldborough had been told, either by Cunningham, or by one of his sisters,
that Godfrey made love to Miss Hauton, and that when he came to town
ostensibly on some regimental business, and was pleading for a brother
officer, his concealed motive was to break off the marriage of his
lordship's niece. Buckhurst had been at the opera in the same box with
Miss Hauton and with my brother Godfrey one night. Godfrey's conduct had
been misrepresented, and as soon as Buckhurst found that Lord Oldborough
had been deceived, he was determined that he should know the truth; or,
at least, that he should know that my brother was not to blame. Godfrey
never mentioned the subject to me; but, from what I can understand, the
lady showed him _distinguished attention_. How Buckhurst Falconer managed
to _right_ my brother in Lord Oldborough's opinion without _involving_
the young lady, I do not know.--He said that he had fortunately had an
opportunity one evening at his father's, when he was playing at chess with
Lord Oldborough, of speaking to him on that subject, when none of his
family was watching him. He told me that Lord Oldborough desires to see me,
and has appointed his hour to-morrow morning. Now, Rosamond, my dear, set
your imagination to work; I must go and draw a _replication_, which will
keep mine fast bound.

"Yours truly,

"Alfred Percy."

At the appointed hour, Alfred waited upon the minister, and was received
graciously. Not one word of Godfrey, however, or of any thing leading to
that subject. Lord Oldborough spoke to Alfred as to the son of his old
friend. He began by lamenting the misfortunes which had deprived Mr. Percy
of that estate and station to which he had done honour. His lordship
went on to say that he was sorry that Mr. Percy's love of retirement, or
pride of independence, precluded all idea of seeing him in parliament;
but he hoped that Mr. Percy's sons were, in this extravagant notion of
independence, and in this _only_, unlike their father.

With all due deference, Alfred took the liberty of replying to the word
_extravagant_, and endeavoured to explain that his father's ideas of
independence did not go beyond just bounds: Lord Oldborough, contrary to
his usual custom when he met with any thing like contradiction, did not
look displeased; on the contrary, he complimented Alfred on his being a
good advocate. Alfred was going to _fall into a commonplace_, about a good
cause; but from that he was happily saved by Lord Oldborough's changing the
conversation.

He took up a pamphlet which lay upon his table. It was Cunningham
Falconer's, that is to say, the pamphlet which was published in
Cunningham's name, and for which he was mean enough to take the credit
from the poor starving genius in the garret. Lord Oldborough turned over
the leaves. "Here is a passage that was quoted yesterday at dinner at
Commissioner Falconer's, but I don't think that any of the company, or the
commissioner himself, though he is, or was, a reading man, could recollect
to what author it alludes."

Lord Oldborough pointed to the passage: "_Thus the fame of heroes is at
last neglected by their worshippers, and left to the care of the birds of
heaven, or abandoned to the serpents of the earth._"

Alfred fortunately recollected that this alluded to a description in Arrian
of the island of Achilles, the present Isle of Serpents, where there is
that temple of the hero, of which, as the historian says, "the care is left
to the birds alone, who every morning repair to the sea, wet their wings,
and sprinkle the temple, afterwards sweeping with their plumage its sacred
pavement."

Lord Oldborough smiled, and said, "The author--the reputed author of this
pamphlet, sir, is obliged to you for throwing light upon a passage which he
could not himself elucidate."

This speech of Lord Oldborough's alluded to something that had passed at
a dinner at Lord Skreene's, the day before Cunningham had set out on his
embassy. Cunningham had been _posed_ by this passage, for which Secretary
Cope, who hated him, had maliciously complimented him, and besought him to
explain it. Secretary Cope, who was a poet, made an epigram on Cunningham
the diplomatist. The lines we do not remember. The points of it were, that
Cunningham was so complete a diplomatist, that he would not commit himself
by giving up his authority, even for a quotation, and that when he knew
the author of an excellent thing, he, with admirable good faith, _kept it
to himself_. This epigram remained at the time a profound secret to Lord
Oldborough. Whilst Cunningham was going with a prosperous gale, it was not
heard of; but it worked round, according to the manoeuvres of courts, just
by the time the tide of favour began to ebb. Lord Oldborough, dissatisfied
with one of Cunningham's despatches, was heard to say, as he folded it up,
"_A slovenly performance_!"

Then, at the happy moment, stepped in the rival Secretary Cope, and put
into his lordship's hands the epigram and the anecdote.

All this the reader is to take as a note explanatory upon Lord Oldborough's
last speech to Alfred, and now to go on with the conversation--at the word
_elucidate_.

"I suspect," continued his lordship, "that Mr. Alfred Percy knows more of
this pamphlet altogether than the reputed author ever did."

Alfred felt himself change colour, and the genius in the garret rushed upon
his mind; at the same instant he recollected that he was not at liberty to
name Mr. Temple, and that he must not betray Cunningham. Alfred answered
that it was not surprising he should know the pamphlet well, as he probably
admired it more, and had read it oftener, than the author himself had ever
done.

"Very well parried, young gentleman. You will not allow, then, that you had
any hand in writing it?"

"No, my lord," said Alfred, "I had none whatever; I never saw it till it
was published."

"I have not a right, in politeness, to press the question. Permit me,
however, to say, that it is a performance of which any man might be proud."

"I should, my lord, be proud--very proud, if I had written it; but I am
incapable of assuming a merit that is not mine, and I trust the manner in
which I now disclaim it does not appear like the affected modesty of an
author who wishes to have that believed which he denies. I hope I convince
your lordship of the truth."

"I cannot have any doubt of what you assert in this serious manner, sir.
May I ask if you can tell me the name of the real author?"

"Excuse me, my lord--I cannot. I have answered your lordship with perfect
openness, as far as I am concerned."

"Sir," said Lord Oldborough, "I confess that I began this conversation with
the prepossession that you were equal to a performance of which I think
highly, but you have succeeded in convincing me that I was mistaken--that
you are not equal--but superior to it."

Upon this compliment, Alfred, as he thought the force of politeness could
no farther go, rose, bowed, and prepared to retire.

"Are you in a hurry to leave me, Mr. Percy?"

"Quite the contrary, but I was afraid of encroaching upon your lordship's
goodness; I know that your time is most valuable, and that your lordship
has so much business of importance."

"Perhaps Mr. Alfred Percy may assist me in saving time hereafter."

Alfred sat down again, as his lordship's eye desired it.--Lord Oldborough
remained for a few moments silent, leaning upon his arm on the table, deep
in thought.

"Yes, sir," said he, "I certainly have, as you say, much business upon my
hands. But _that_ is not the difficulty; with hands and heads business is
easily arranged and expedited. I have hands and heads enough at my command.
Talents of all sorts can be obtained for their price, but that which is
above all price, integrity, cannot--there's the difficulty--there is my
difficulty. I have not a single man about me whom I can trust--many who
understand my views, but none who feel them--'_Des ames de boue et de
fange!_' Wretches who care not if the throne and the country perish, if
their little interests--Young gentleman," said he, recollecting himself,
and turning to Alfred, "I feel as if I were speaking to a part of your
father when I am speaking to you."

Alfred felt this, and Lord Oldborough saw that he felt it strongly.

"_Then_, my dear sir," said he, "you understand me--I see we understand and
shall suit one another. I am in want of a secretary to supply the place
of Mr. Cunningham Falconer. Mr. Drakelow is going to Constantinople; but
he shall first initiate his successor in the business of his office--a
routine, which little minds would make great minds believe is a mystery
above ordinary comprehension. But, sir, I have no doubt that you will
be expert in a very short time in the technical part--in the routine of
office; and if it suits your views, in one word, I should be happy to have
you for my private secretary. Take time to consider, if you do not wish
to give an answer immediately; but I beg that you will consult no one but
yourself--not even your father. And as soon as your mind is made up, let me
know your decision."

After returning thanks to the minister, who had, by this time, risen to a
prodigious height in Alfred's opinion; after having reiterated his thanks
with a warmth which was not displeasing, he retired. The account of his
feelings on this occasion is given with much _truth_ in his own letter,
from which we extract the passage:

"I believe I felt a little like Gil Blas after his first visit at court.
Vapours of ambition certainly mounted into my head, and made me a little
giddy; that night I did not sleep quite so well as usual. The bar and the
court, Lord Oldborough and my special pleader, were continually before my
eyes balancing in my imagination all the _pros_ and _cons_. I fatigued
myself, but could neither rest nor decide. Seven years of famine at the
bar--horrible! but then independence and liberty of conscience--and in
time, success--the certain reward of industry--well-earned wealth--perhaps
honours--why not the highest professional honours? The life of a party-man
and a politician, agreed by all who have tried, even by this very Lord
Oldborough himself, agreed to be an unhappy life--obliged to live with
people I despise--might be tempted, like others, to do things for which
I should despise myself--subject to caprice--at best, my fortune quite
dependent on my patron's continuance in power--power and favour uncertain.

"It was long before I got my pros and cons even into this rude preparation
for comparison, and longer still before the logical process of giving
to each good and evil its just value, and drawing clear deductions from
distinct premises, could be accomplished. However, in four-and-twenty hours
I solved the problem.

"I waited upon Lord Oldborough to tell him my conclusion. With professions
of gratitude, respect, and attachment, more sincere, I fancy, than those
he usually hears, I began; and ended by telling him, in the best manner I
could, that I thought my trade was more honest than his, and that, hard as
a lawyer's life was, I preferred it to a politician's.--You don't suspect
me of saying all this--no, I was not quite so brutal; but, perhaps, it was
implied by my declining the honour of the secretaryship, and preferring to
abide by my profession. Lord Oldborough looked--or my vanity fancied that
he looked--disappointed. After a pause of silent displeasure, he said,
'Well, sir, upon the whole I believe you have decided wisely. I am sorry
that you cannot serve me, and that I cannot serve you in the manner which
I had proposed. Yours is a profession in which ministerial support can
be of little use, but in which talents, perseverance, and integrity, are
secure, sooner or later, of success. I have, therefore, only to wish you
opportunity: and if any means in my power should occur of accelerating that
opportunity, you may depend upon it, sir.' said his lordship, holding out
his hand to me, 'I shall not forget you--even if you were not the son of my
old friend, you have made an interest for yourself in my mind.'

"Thus satisfactorily we parted--no--just as I reached the door, his
lordship added, 'Your brother, Captain Percy--have you heard from him
lately?'

"'Yes, my lord, from Plymouth, where they were driven back by contrary
winds.'

"'Ha!--he was well, I hope?'

"'Very well, I thank your lordship.'

"'That's well--he is a temperate man, I think. So he will stand the climate
of the West Indies--and, probably, it will not be necessary for his
majesty's service that he should remain there long.'

"I bowed--was again retiring and was again recalled.

"'There was a major in your brother's regiment about whom Captain Percy
spoke to me--Major--'

"'Gascoigne, I believe, my lord.'

"'Gascoigne--true--Gascoigne.' His lordship wrote the name down in a
note-book.

"Bows for the last time--not a word more on either side.

"And now that I have written all this to you, my dear mother, I am almost
ashamed to send it--because it is so full of egotism. But Rosamond, the
_excuser general_, will apologize for me, by pleading that I was obliged to
tell the truth, and the whole truth.

"Love to Caroline, and thanks for her letter.--Love to Rosamond, upon
condition that she will write to me from Hungerford Castle, and cheer my
solitude in London with news from the country, and from home.

"Your affectionate son,

"ALFRED PERCY.

"P.S. I hope you all like O'Brien."

We hope the reader will recollect the poor Irishman, whose leg the surgeon
had condemned to be cut off, but which was saved by Erasmus. A considerable
time afterwards, one morning, when Erasmus was just getting up, he heard
a loud knock at his door, and in one and the same instant pushing past
his servant into his bedchamber, and to the foot of his bed, rushed this
Irishman O'Brien, breathless, and with a face perspiring joy. "I axe your
honour's pardon, master, but it's what you're wanting down street in all
haste--here's an elegant case for ye, doctor dear!--That painter-jantleman
down in the square there beyond that is not _expicted_."

"Not expected!" said Erasmus.

"Ay, not expected: so put on ye with the speed of light--Where's his
waistcoat," continued he, turning to Dr. Percy's astonished servant, "and
coat?--the top coat, and the wig--has he one?--Well! boots or shoes give
him any way."

"But I don't clearly understand--Pray did this gentleman send for me?" said
Dr. Percy.

"Send for your honour! Troth he never thought of it--no, nor couldn't--how
could he? and he in the way he was and is. But God bless ye! and never mind
shaving, or another might get it afore we'd be back. Though there was none
_in it_ but myself when I left it--but still keep on buttoning for the
life."

Erasmus dressed as quickly as he could, not understanding, however, above
one word in ten that had been said to him. His servant, who did not
comprehend even one word, endeavoured in vain to obtain an explanation; but
O'Brien, paying no regard to his solemn face of curiosity, put him aside
with his hand, and continuing to address Dr. Percy, followed him about the
room.

"Master! you mind my _mintioning_ to you last time I _seen_ your honour,
that my leg was weak _by times_, no fault though to the doctor that cured
it--so I could not be _after carrying_ the weighty loads I used up and
down the ladders at every call, so I quit _sarving_ the masons, and sought
for lighter work, and found an employ that _shuted_ me with a jantleman
painter", grinding of his colours, and that was what I was at this morning,
so I was, and standing as close to him as I am this minute to your honour,
thinking of nothing at all just now, please your honour, _forenent_
him--_asy_ grinding, _whin_ he took some sort or kind of a fit."

"A fit! Why did you not tell me that sooner?"

"Sure I _tould_ you he was not _expicted_,--that is, if you don't know in
England, _not expicted to live_; and sure I _tould_ your honour so from
the first," said O'Brien. "But then the jantleman was as well as I am this
minute, that minute afore--and the _nixt_ fell his length on the floor
entirely. Well! I set and up again, and, for want of better, filled out a
thimble-full, say, of the spirits of wine as they call it, which he got by
good luck for the varnish, and made him take it down, and he come to, and
I axed him how was he after it?--Better, says he. That's well, says I; and
who will I send for to ye, sir? says I. But afore he could make answer, I
bethought me of your own honour; and for fear he would say another, I never
troubled him, putting the question to him again, but just set the spirits
nigh hand him, and away with me here; I come off without _letting on_ a
word to nobody, good or bad, in dread your honour would miss the job."

"Job!" said Dr. Percy's servant: "do you think my master wants a job?"

"Oh! Lord love ye, and just give his hat. Would you have us be standing on
ceremony now in a case of life and death?"

Dr. Percy was, as far as he understood it, of the Irishman's way of
thinking. He followed as fast as he could to the painter's--found that he
had had a slight paralytic stroke, from which he had recovered. We need not
detail the particulars. Nature and Dr. Percy _brought him through_. He was
satisfied with his physician; for Erasmus would not take any fee, because
he went unsent for by the patient. The painter, after his recovery, was one
day complimenting Dr. Percy on the inestimable service he had done the arts
in restoring him to his pencil, in proof of which the artist showed many
master-pieces that wanted only the finishing touch, in particular a huge,
long-limbed, fantastic, allegorical piece of his own design, which he
assured Dr. Percy was the finest example of the _beau idal_, ancient or
modern, that human genius had ever produced upon canvas. "And what do
you think, doctor," said the painter, "tell me what you can think of a
connoisseur, a patron, sir, who could stop my hand, and force me from that
immortal work to a portrait? A portrait! Barbarian! He fit to encourage
genius! He set up to be a Mecnas! Mere vanity! Gives pensions to four
sign-post daubers, not fit to grind my colours! Knows no more of the art
than that fellow," pointing to the Irishman, who was at that instant
grinding the colours--_asy_ as he described himself.

"And lets me languish here in obscurity!" continued the enraged painter.
"Now I'll never put another stroke to his Dutch beauty's portrait, if I
starve--if I rot for it in jail! He a Mecnas!"

The changes upon this abuse were rung repeatedly by this irritated genius,
his voice and palsied hand trembling with rage while he spoke, till he was
interrupted by a carriage stopping at the door.

"Here's the patron!" cried the Irishman, with an arch look. "Ay, it's the
patron, sure enough!"

Dr. Percy was going away, but O'Brien got between him and the door,
menacing his coat with his pallet-knife covered with oil--Erasmus stopped.

"I axe your pardon, but don't go," whispered he: "I wouldn't for the best
coat nor waistcoat ever I seen you went this minute, dear!"

Mr. Gresham was announced--a gentleman of a most respectable, benevolent,
prepossessing appearance, whom Erasmus had some recollection of having seen
before. Mr. Gresham recognized him instantly: he was the merchant whom
Erasmus had met at Sir Amyas Courtney's the morning when he offended Sir
Amyas about the made shell. After having spoken a few words to the painter
about the portrait, Mr. Gresham turned to Dr. Percy, and said, "I am
afraid, sir, that you lost a friend at court by your sincerity about a
shell."

Before Erasmus could answer--in less time than he could have thought it
possible to take off a stocking, a great bare leg--O'Brien's leg, came
between Mr. Gresham and Dr. Percy. "There's what lost him a rich friend any
way, and gained him a poor one, if that would do any good. There it is now!
This leg! God for ever bless him and reward him for it!"

Then with eloquence, emphasis, and action, which came from the heart, and
went to the heart, the poor fellow told how his leg had been saved, and
spoke of what Dr. Percy had done for him, in terms which Erasmus would
have been ashamed to hear, but that he really was so much affected with
O'Brien's gratitude, and thought it did so much honour to human nature,
that he could not stop him.--Mr. Gresham was touched also; and upon
observing this, Erasmus's friend, with his odd mixture of comedy and
pathos, ended with this exhortation, "And God bless you, sir! you're a
great man, and have many to my knowledge under a compliment to you, and
if you've any friends that are _lying_, or sick, if you'd recommend them
to send for _him_ in preference to any other of the doctors, it would
be a charity to themselves and to me; for I will never have peace else,
thinking how I have been a hinderance to him. And a charity it would be to
themselves, for what does the sick want but to be cured? and there's the
man will do that for them, as two witnesses here present can prove--that
jantleman, if he would spake, and myself."

Erasmus now peremptorily stopped this scene, for he began to feel for
himself, and to be ashamed of the ridicule which his puffing friend, in
his zeal, was throwing upon him. Erasmus said that he had done nothing for
O'Brien except placing him in St. George's Hospital, where he had been
admirably well attended. Mr. Gresham, however, at once relieved his wounded
delicacy, and dispelled all fears and anxiety, by the manner in which
he spoke and looked. He concluded by inviting Dr. Percy to his house,
expressing with much cordiality a wish to be more intimately acquainted
with a young gentleman, of whose character he had accidentally learned more
good than his modesty seemed willing to allow should be known.

O'Brien's eyes sparkled; he rubbed his hands, but restrained himself lest
Dr. Percy should be displeased. When Erasmus went away, O'Brien followed
him down stairs, begging his honour's pardon--if he had said any thing
wrong or unbecoming, it was through ignorance.

It was impossible to be angry with him.

We extract from Erasmus's letter to his mother the following account of his
first visit to Mr. Gresham.

"When I went to see Mr. Gresham, I was directed to an unfashionable part
of the town, to one of the dark old streets of the city; and from all
appearance I thought I was going to grope my way into some strange dismal
den, like many of the ancient houses in that quarter of the town. But,
to my surprise, after passing through a court, and up an unpromising
staircase, I found myself in a spacious apartment. The darkness changed
to light, the smoke and din of the city to retirement and fresh air. A
near view of the Thames appeared through large windows down to the floor,
balconies filled with flowers and sweet shrubs!--It was an Arabian scene
in London. Rosamond, how you would have been delighted! But I have not
yet told you that there was a young and beautiful lady sitting near the
balcony, and her name is Constance: that is all I shall tell you about
the young lady at present. I must go on with Mr. Gresham, who was in his
picture-gallery--yes, picture-gallery--and a very fine one it is. Mr.
Gresham, whose fortune is one of those of which only English merchants
can form any adequate idea, makes use of it in a manner which does honour
to his profession and to his country: he has patronized the arts with a
munificence not unworthy of the Medici.

"My complaining genius, the painter, who had abused his patron so much, was
there with his portrait, which, notwithstanding his vow never to touch it
again, he had finished, and brought home, and with it the sprawling Venus:
he was now extremely angry with Mr. Gresham for declining to purchase this
chef-d'oeuvre. With the painter was a poet equally vain and dissatisfied.

"I admired the mildness with which Mr. Gresham bore with their ill-humour
and vanity.--After the painter and poet, to my satisfaction, had departed,
I said something expressive of my pity for patrons who had to deal with the
irritable race. He mildly replied, that he thought that a man, surrounded
as he was with all the comforts and luxuries of life, should have
compassion, and should make allowance for genius struggling with poverty,
disease, and disappointment. He acknowledged that he had met with much
ingratitude, and had been plagued by the pretensions, expectations,
and quarrels of his tribe of poets and painters. 'For a man's own
happiness,' said he, 'the trade of a patron is the most dreadful he can
follow--gathering samphire were nothing to it.'

"Pray tell my father this, because it opens a new view, and new
confirmation of his opinions--I never spent a more agreeable day than this
with Mr. Gresham. He converses well, and has a variety of information,
which he pours forth liberally, and yet without the slightest ostentation:
his only wish seems to be to entertain and inform those to whom he
speaks--he has no desire to shine. In a few hours we went over a world of
literature. I was proud to follow him, and he seemed pleased that I could
sometimes anticipate--I happened to know as well as he did the history of
the two Flamels, and several particulars of the Jesuits in Paraguay.

"My father often told us, when we were boys, that there is no knowledge,
however distant it seems from our profession, that may not, some time or
other, be useful; and Mr. Gresham, after he had conversed sufficiently with
me both on literature and science, to discover that I was not an ignorant
pretender, grew warm in his desire to serve me. But he had the politeness
to refrain from saying any thing directly about medicine; he expressed only
an increased desire to cultivate my acquaintance, and begged that I would
call upon him at any hour, and _give him the pleasure of my conversation,
whenever I had time_.

"The next morning he called upon me, and told me that he was desired to ask
my advice for a sick partner of his, to whom, if I would accompany him, he
would immediately introduce me. Who and what this partner is, and of what
disease he is dying, if you have any curiosity to know, you shall hear in
my next, this frank will hold no more--except love, light as air, to all at
home.

"Dear mother, affectionately yours,

"E. PERCY"




CHAPTER XVI.


Now for the visit to Hungerford Castle--a fine old place in a beautiful
park, which excelled many parks of greater extent by the uncommon size
of its venerable oaks. In the castle, which was sufficiently spacious to
accommodate with ease and perfect comfort the _troops of friends_ which its
owner's beneficent character drew round her, there were apartments that
usually bore the name of some of those persons who were considered as the
most intimate friends of the family. The Percys were of this number. They
found their own rooms ready, the old servants of the house rejoicing to see
them again, and eager in offering their services. Many things showed that
they had been thought of, and expected; yet there was nothing that could
remind them that any change had taken place in their fortune: no formal
or peculiar civilities from the mistress of the house, from her daughter,
or nieces--neither more nor less attention than usual; but by every thing
that marked old habits of intimacy and confidence, the Percys were, as if
undesignedly and necessarily, distinguished from other guests.

Of these the most conspicuous was the Lady Angelica Headingham.--Her
ladyship had lately come to a large estate, and had consequently produced a
great sensation in the fashionable world. During the early part of her life
she had been much and injudiciously restrained. The moment the pressure was
taken off, the spirit boiled with surprising rapidity: immediately Lady
Angelica Headingham shone forth a beauty, a bel-esprit, and a patroness;
and though she appeared as it were _impromptu_ in these characters, yet,
to do her justice, she supported them with as much spirit, truth, and
confidence, as if she had been in the habit of playing them all her life,
and as if she had trod the fashionable stage from her teens. There was
only one point in which, perhaps, she erred: from not having been early
accustomed to flattery, she did not receive it with quite sufficient
_nonchalance_. The adoration paid to her in her triple capacity by crowds
of worshippers only increased the avidity of her taste for incense, to
receive which she would now and then stoop lower than became a goddess. She
had not yet been suspected of a real partiality for any of her admirers,
though she was accused of giving each just as much encouragement as was
necessary to turn his head. Of these admirers, two, the most eager and
earnest in the pursuit, had followed her ladyship to the country, and were
now at Hungerford Castle--Sir James Harcourt and Mr. Barclay.

Sir James Harcourt was remarkably handsome and fashionable--completely a
man of the world, and a courtier: who, after having ruined his fortune by
standing for government two contested county elections, had dangled year
after year at court, living upon the hope and promise of a pension or a
place, till his creditors warning him that they could wait no longer, he
had fallen in love with Lady Angelica Headingham. Her ladyship's other
admirer, Mr. Barclay, was a man of considerable fortune, of good family,
and of excellent sense and character. He had arrived at that time of life
when he wished to settle to the quiet enjoyment of domestic happiness; but
he had seen so much misery arise from unfortunate marriages among some of
his particular friends, that he had been afraid of forming any attachment,
or, at least, engagement. His acquaintance with fashionable life had still
further rendered him averse from matrimony; and from love he had defended
himself with infinite caution, and escaped, till in an unlucky moment
he had met with Lady Angelica. Against his better judgment, he had been
captivated by her charms and talents: his reason, however, still struggled
with his passion--he had never actually declared his love; but the lady
knew it probably better than he did, and her caprice and coquetry cost him
many an agonizing hour. All which he bore with the silence and patience of
a martyr.

When the Percy family saw Lady Angelica for the first time, she was in all
her glory--fresh from a successful toilette, conscious of renovated powers,
with an accumulated spirit of animation, and inspired by the ambition to
charm a new audience. Though past the bloom of youth, she was a handsome
showy woman, with the air of one who requires and receives admiration.
Her attitudes, her action, and the varied expression she threw into her
countenance, were more than the occasion required, and rather too evidently
designed to interest or to fascinate. She was surrounded by a group of
gentlemen; Sir James Harcourt, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Seebright, a young poet;
Mr. Grey, a man of science; and others--_personnages muets_. Arduous as was
the task, Lady Angelica's various powers and indefatigable exertion proved
capable of keeping each of these different minds in full play, and in high
admiration.

Beauties are always curious about beauties, and wits about wits. Lady
Angelica had heard that one of the Miss Percys was uncommonly handsome.
Quick as eye could glance, her ladyship's passed by Mrs. Percy and Rosamond
as they entered the room, fixed upon Caroline, and was satisfied. There was
beauty enough to alarm, but simplicity sufficient to remove all fears of
rivalship. Caroline entered, without any prepared grace or practised smile,
but merely as if she were coming into a room. Her two friends, the Lady
Pembrokes, instantly placed her between them, her countenance expressing
just what she felt, affectionate pleasure at seeing them.

"A sweet pretty creature, really!" whispered Lady Angelica, to her admirer
in waiting, Sir James Harcourt.

"Ye--ye--yes; but nothing _marquante_," replied Sir James.

Mr. Barclay's eye followed, and fixed upon Caroline, with a degree of
interest. The room was so large, and they were at such a distance from
Caroline, who was now occupied in listening to her friends, that Lady
Angelica could continue her observations without fear of being overheard.

"There is something so interesting in that air of simplicity!" pursued her
ladyship, addressing herself to Mr. Barclay. "Don't you think there is a
wonderful charm in simplicity? 'Tis a pity it can't last: it is like those
delicate colours which always catch the eye the moment they are seen,
by which I've been taken in a hundred times, and have now forsworn for
ever--treacherous colours that fade, and fly even while you look at them."

"That is a pity," said Mr. Barclay, withdrawing his eyes from Caroline.

"A thousand pities," said Lady Angelica. "Perhaps, in the country, this
delicate charm might possibly, and with infinite care and caution, last a
few years, but in town it would not last a season."

"True--too true," said Mr. Barclay.

"For which reason," pursued Lady Angelica, "give me something a little more
durable, something that can stand what it must meet with in the world:
fashion, for instance, though not half so charming till we are used to it;
or knowledge, though often dearly bought; or genius, though doubly taxed
with censure; or wit, though so hard to be had genuine--any thing is better
than a faded charm, a has-been-pretty simplicity."

"When it comes to _that_, it is lamentable, indeed," said Mr. Barclay. He
seemed to wish to say something more in favour of simplicity, but to be
overpowered by wit.

Sir James shrugged his shoulders, and protested that simplicity had
something too _fade_ in it, to suit his taste.

All this time, where was Colonel Hungerford? He had been expected to arrive
this day; but a letter came to tell his mother, that he was detained by
indispensable military business, and that, he feared, he could not for
some weeks have the pleasure of being at home. Every one looked and felt
disappointed.

"So," thought Rosamond, "we shall be gone before he comes, and he will not
see Caroline!"

"So!" said Lady Angelica, to herself, "he will not see me."

Rosamond was somewhat comforted for her disappointment, by observing that
Caroline was not quite lost upon Mr. Barclay, pre-occupied though he was
with his brilliant mistress. She thought he seemed to notice the marked
difference there was in their manner of passing the day.

Lady Angelica, though she would sometimes handle a pencil, touch the harp,
or take up a book, yet never was really employed. Caroline was continually
occupied. In the morning, she usually sat with Rosamond and the two Lady
Pembrokes, in a little room called _the Oriel_, which opened into the great
library. Here in happy retirement Caroline and Rosamond looked over Mrs.
Hungerford's select library, and delighted to read the passages which
had been marked with approbation. At other times, without disturbing
the rest of the company, or being disturbed by them, Caroline enjoyed
the opportunity of cultivating her talents for music and painting, with
the assistance of her two friends, who eminently excelled in these
accomplishments.

All this time Lady Angelica spent in talking to show her wit, or lounging
to show her grace. Now and then her ladyship condescended to join the young
people, when they went out to walk, but never unless they were attended by
gentlemen. The beauties of nature have come into fashion of late, and Lady
Angelica Headingham could talk of bold outlines, and sublime mountains, the
charming effects of light and shade, fine _accidents_, and rich foliage,
spring verdure and autumnal tints,--whilst Caroline could enjoy all these
things, without expecting to be admired for admiring them. Mrs. Mortimer
was planting a new shrubbery, and laying out a ride through the park.
Caroline took an unaffected interest in all her plans, whilst Lady Angelica
was interested only in showing how much she remembered of Price, and
Repton, and Knight. She became too hot or too cold, or she was tired to
death, the moment she ceased to be the principal object of attention. But
though her ladyship was thus idle by day, she sometimes worked hard by
night--hard as Butler is said to have toiled in secret, to support the
character of an idle universal genius, who knows every thing without
studying any thing. From dictionaries and extracts, abridgments and
_beauties_ of various authors, here, and there, and every where, she picked
up shining scraps, and often by an ostentation of superficial knowledge
succeeded in appearing in conversation to possess a vast extent of
literature, and to be deeply skilled in matters of science, of which she
knew nothing, and for which she had no taste.

Mr. Seebright, the poet, was easily duped by this display: he expressed
the most flattering astonishment, and pronounced her ladyship to be an
universal genius. He looked up to Lady Angelica for patronage. He was
so weak, or so ignorant of the world, as to imagine that the patronage
of a fashionable literary lady of high rank would immediately guide the
opinion of the public, and bring a poet forward to fortune and fame. With
these hopes he performed his daily, hourly duty of admiration to his fair
patroness, with all possible zeal and assiduity; but it was observed by
Rosamond that, in conversation, whenever Mr. Seebright had a new idea or
a favourite allusion to produce, his eye involuntarily turned first to
Caroline; and though he professed, on all points of taste and criticism,
to be implicitly governed by Lady Angelica Headingham, there was "a small
still voice" to which he more anxiously listened.

As to Mr. Grey, the roan of science--he soon detected Lady Angelica's
ignorance; smiled in silence at her blunders, and despised her for her
_arts of pretence_. In vain, to win his suffrage, she produced the letters
of various men of note and talent with whom she was in correspondence; in
vain she talked of all the persons of rank who were her relations or dear
friends:--she should be so happy to introduce him to this great man, or to
mention him to that great lady; she should be so proud, on her return to
town, to have Mr. Grey at her _esprit parties_; she would have such and
such celebrated characters to meet him, and would have the pleasure and
honour of introducing him to every person worth knowing in town.

With all due civility Mr. Grey declined these offers. There were few
persons the pleasure or honour of whose company could compensate to him for
the loss of his time, or equal the enjoyment he had in his own occupations;
and those few he was so happy to have for his friends, he did not wish
to form new acquaintance--he never went to _conversaziones_--he was much
obliged to her ladyship, but he did not want to be _mentioned_ to great
men or great women. The nature of his fame was quite independent of
fashion.--In this respect men of science have much the advantage of men of
taste. Works of taste may, to a certain degree, be _cried up_ or _cried
down_ by fashion. The full-fledged bard soars superior, and looks down at
once upon the great and little world; but the young poet, in his first
attempts to rise, is often obliged, or thinks himself obliged, to have his
wing impelled by patronage.

With all her resources, however, both of patronage and of _bel-esprit_,
Lady Angelica was equally surprised and mortified to find herself foiled at
her own arms, by a girl whom nobody knew. She changed her manoeuvres--she
thought she could show Miss Caroline Percy, that, whatever might be her
abilities, her knowledge, or her charms, these must all submit to the
superior power of fashion. Caroline having lived in the country, could not
know much of the world of fashion. This was a world from which she thought
she could move every other at pleasure. Her conversation was no longer of
books, of which all of equal talents were competent to form a judgment; but
her _talk_ was now of persons, with whom no one who had not lived in the
great world could pretend to be acquainted, of whom they could not presume
to judge. Her ladyship tried in vain to draw Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs.
Mortimer to her aid; they were too well-bred to encourage this exclusive
and unprofitable conversation. But her ladyship knew that she could be
sufficiently supported by Sir James Harcourt! He prided himself upon
knowing and being known to _every body_, that is, _any body_, in London;
he had an inexhaustible fund of town and court anecdote. What an auxiliary
for Lady Angelica! But though their combined operations were carried
on with consummate skill, and though the league offensive was strictly
kept with every demonstration of mutual amity that could excite jealousy
or express contempt for rival powers; yet the ultimate purpose was not
gained--Caroline was not mortified, and Mr. Barclay was not jealous; at
least, he was not sufficiently jealous to afford a clear triumph.

One morning, when she had been playing off all her graces, while Sir James
admired her in every Proteus form of affectation, Mr. Barclay, as she
thought, evidently pained by her coquetry, retired from the sofa, where
she sat, and went to Mrs. Hungerford's table, where he took up a book and
began to read. Lady Angelica spared no art to distract his attention:
she contrived for herself an employment, which called forth continual
exclamations of admiration, joy, despair, which at first made Mr. Barclay
turn to see by what they could be caused; but when he found that they were
occasioned only by the rise or fall of a house of cards which she was
building, he internally said, "Pshaw!" and afterwards kept his eyes fixed
upon his book. Sir James continued to serve the fair architect with the
frail materials for her building--her _Folly_, as she called it--and for
his services he received much encouragement of smiles, and many marked
commendations. Mrs. Hungerford called upon Mr. Barclay to read a favourite
poem.

Mr. Barclay read remarkably well, and soon fixed the attention of all the
company, except that of Lady Angelica and her knight, Sir James Harcourt,
whom she detained in her service. She could not be so flagrantly rude as
to interrupt the reader by audible exclamations, but by dumb-show, by a
variety of gestures and pretty looks of delight at every fresh story added
to her card edifice, and at every motion of terror lest her tower should
fall, her ladyship showed Mr. Barclay that she was not listening to that
which she knew he was particularly desirous that she should hear.

The moment the reader's voice ceased, Lady Angelica approached the table.
"Ten millions of pardons!" said she, drawing some cards from beneath Miss
Caroline Percy's elbow, which rested on them. "Unpardonable wretch that I
am, to have disturbed such a reverie--and such an attitude! Mr. Barclay,"
continued her ladyship, "now if you have leisure to think of me, may I
trouble you for some of your little cards for the attic of my dear Folly?"

Mr. Barclay coolly presented the cards to her ladyship: then looked out of
the window, observed that his horse was at the door, and was following Mr.
Percy out of the room, when Lady Angelica, just as Mr. Barclay passed, blew
down her tower, and exclaimed, "There's an end of my folly--of one of my
follies, I mean: I wish I could blow them all away so easily."

The sigh and look of penitence with which she pronounced these words were
accepted as expiation--Mr. Barclay stopped and returned; while sweeping the
wreck of her tower from the table, she repeated,

  "Easy, as when ashore an infant stands,
  And draws imagined houses on the sands,
  The sportive wanton, pleased with some new play,
  Sweeps the slight works and fancied domes away:
  Thus vanish at thy touch the tow'rs and walls,
  The toil of _mornings_ in a moment falls."

"Beautiful lines!" said Mr. Barclay.

"And charmingly repeated," said Sir James Harcourt: "are they your
ladyship's own?"

"No; Homer's," said she, smiling; "Pope's Homer's, I mean."

To cover his blunder as fast as possible, Sir James went on to something
else, and asked what her ladyship thought of Flaxman's sketches from
the Iliad and Odyssey? He had seen the book lying on the library table
yesterday: indeed, his eye had been caught, as it lay open, by a striking
resemblance--he knew it was very rude to talk of likenesses--but, really,
the resemblance was striking between a lady he had in his view, and one of
the figures in Flaxman, of Venus, or Penelope, he could not say which, but
he would look for the book and see in a moment.

The book was not to be found on the library table; Mrs. Hungerford said she
believed it was in the Oriel: Sir James went to look--Miss Caroline Percy
was drawing from it--that was unlucky, for Mr. Barclay followed, stayed
to admire Miss Percy's drawings, which he had never seen before, and
in looking over these sketches of hers from Flaxman's Homer, and from
Euripides and schylus, which the Lady Pembrokes showed him, and in
speaking of these, he discovered so much of Caroline's taste, literature,
and feeling, that he could not quit the Oriel. Lady Angelica had followed
to prevent mischief, and Mrs. Hungerford had followed to enjoy the pleasure
of seeing Caroline's modest merit appreciated. Whilst Mr. Barclay admired
in silence, Sir James Harcourt, not with his usual politeness, exclaimed,
"I protest I had no notion that Miss Caroline Percy drew in this style!"

"That's possible," cried Lady Mary Pembroke, colouring with that prompt
indignation which she was prone to feel when any thing was said that seemed
derogatory to her friends, "that's possible, Sir James; and yet you find
Miss Caroline Percy does draw in this very superior style--yes, and it is
the perfection of her accomplishments, that they are never exhibited."

"You have always the pleasure of discovering them," said Mrs. Hungerford;
"they are as a woman's accomplishments and acquirements ought to be, more
retiring than obtrusive; or as my old friend, Dr. South, quaintly but aptly
expresses it--more in intaglio than in cameo."

At this instant a sudden scream was heard from Lady Angelica Headingham,
who caught hold of Mr. Barclay's arm, and writhed as if in agony.

"Good Heavens! What is the matter?" cried Mr. Barclay.

"Oh! cramp! cramp! horrid cramp! in my foot--in my leg!"

"Rest upon me," said Mr. Barclay, "and stretch your foot out."

"Torture!--I can't." It was impossible that she could stand without the
support of both gentlemen.

"Carry me to the sofa--there!"

When they had carried her out of the Oriel to the sofa in the library, and
when her ladyship found that she had excited sufficient interest, and drawn
the attention of Mr. Barclay away from Caroline, her ladyship began to
grow a little better, and by graceful degrees recovered the use of her
pretty limbs. And now, as she had reason to be satisfied with the degree
of feeling which Mr. Barclay had involuntarily shown for her when he
thought she was suffering, if her vanity had had any touch of gratitude or
affection mixed with it, she would not have taken this moment to torment
the heart of the man--the only man who ever really loved her; but all in
her was vanity: she began to coquet with Sir James Harcourt--she let him
put on her sandal and tie its strings--she sent him for her shawl, for she
had a mind to walk in the park--and when Mr. Barclay offered to attend her,
and when she found that Caroline and the Lady Pembrokes were going, she had
a mind not to go, and she resolved to detain them all in admiration of her.
She took her shawl from Sir James, and throwing it round her in graceful
drapery, she asked him if he had ever seen any of Lady Hamilton's
attitudes, or rather scenic representations with shawl drapery.

Yes, he had; but he should be charmed to see them in perfection from her
ladyship.

Notwithstanding the hint Mrs. Hungerford had given about _exhibiting_,
and notwithstanding Mr. Barclay's grave looks, Lady Angelica, avowedly
to please Sir James Harcourt, consented to give the exhibition of the
passions. She ran into the Oriel--attired herself in a most appropriate
manner, and appeared first in the character of Fear--then of Hope: she
acted admirably, but just as

  "Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair,"

her ladyship's auburn tresses caught on some ornament in the room. The
whole fabric was raised a little from the fair head on which it seemed to
grow--Caroline sprang forward instantly, and dexterously disentangling the
accomplished actress, relieved her from this imminent and awkward peril.

"I am sure I'm exceedingly obliged to Miss Caroline Percy," said her
ladyship, adjusting her head-dress. "There, now, all's right again--thank
you, Miss Percy--don't trouble yourself, pray."

The heartless manner of these thanks, and her ladyship's preparing to go on
again with her exhibition, so displeased and disgusted Mr. Barclay, that
he left her to the flattery of Sir James Harcourt, and, sighing deeply,
quitted the room.

Lady Angelica, proud of showing her power of tormenting a man of his sense,
smiled victorious; and, in a half whisper, said to Mrs. Hungerford, "Exit
Mr. Barclay, jealous, because he thinks I did the shawl attitudes for
Sir James, and not for him--Poor man! he's very angry; but he'll ride it
off--or I'll smile it off."

Mrs. Hungerford shook her head. When her ladyship's exhibition had
finished, and when Sir James had continued repeating, either with his words
or his looks, "Charming! Is not she charming?" till the time of dressing,
an hour to which he was always punctual, he retired to his toilette, and
Lady Angelica found herself alone with Mrs. Hungerford.

"Oh! how tired I am!" cried her ladyship, throwing herself on a sofa beside
her. "My spirits do so wear me out! I am sure I'm too much for you, Mrs.
Hungerford; I am afraid you think me a strange wild creature: but, dear
madam, why do you look so grave?"

"My dear Lady Angelica Headingham," said Mrs. Hungerford, in a serious but
affectionate tone, laying her hand upon Lady Angelica's as she spoke, "I
was, you know, your mother's most intimate friend--I wish to be yours.
Considering this and my age, I think I may venture to speak to you with
more freedom than any one else now living could with propriety--it grieves
me to see such a woman as you are, being spoiled by adulation."

"Thank you, my dear Mrs. Hungerford! and now do tell me all my faults,"
said Lady Angelica: "only first let me just say, that if you are going to
tell me that I am a coquette, and a fool, I know I am--both--and I can't
help it; and I know I am what some people call _odd_--but I would not for
the world be a common character."

"Then you must not be a coquette," said Mrs. Hungerford, "for that _is_
common character--the hackneyed character of every play, of every novel.
And whatever is common is vulgar, you know: airs and affectation are common
and paltry--throw them aside, my dear Lady Angelica; disdain flattery,
prove that you value your own esteem above vulgar admiration, and then,
with such beauty and talents as you possess, you may be what you admire, an
uncommon character."

"_May_be!" repeated Lady Angelica in a voice of vexation. "Well, I know I
have a hundred faults; but I never before heard any body, friend or enemy,
deny that I _am_ an uncommon character. Now, Mrs. Hungerford, do you know
any one of a more uncommon character?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling, "I know the thing that's most
uncommon,

  'I know a reasonable woman,
  Handsome and witty, yet a friend.'"

"Oh! your friend, Miss Caroline Percy, I suppose. Well! though she is
so great a favourite of yours, I must say that, to my fancy, she is as
little of an uncommon character as any girl I ever saw--uncommon beauty, I
acknowledge, she has, though not the style of face I like."

"And an uncommonly good understanding, without one grain of envy,
affectation, or vanity," said Mrs. Hungerford.

"Vanity!--Stay till you see her tried," said Lady Angelica; "stay till she
has gone through one winter's campaign in London; stay till she has as many
admirers as--"

"As you have," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling. "She seems to be in a fair
way of soon trying that experiment to your satisfaction."

A considerable pause ensued; during which many conflicting passions
appeared in Lady Angelica's countenance.

"After all, Mrs. Hungerford," resumed she, "do you think Mr. Barclay is
really attached to me?"

"I think he _was_ really attached to you, and strongly: but you have been
doing all you can to weaken and destroy his attachment, I fear."

"Fear nothing! I fear nothing," exclaimed Lady Angelica, "now you tell me,
dear Mrs. Hungerford, that you do not doubt the _reality_ of his love: all
the rest I will answer for--trust to me, I know my game."

Mrs. Hungerford sighed; and replied, "I am old, have stood by, and seen
this game played and lost so often, and by as able players as Lady Angelica
Headingham--take care--remember I warn you."

Miss Caroline Percy came into the room at this instant--Lady Angelica went
to her toilette to repair her charms.




CHAPTER XVII.


While Mrs. Hungerford was wasting her good advice upon Lady Angelica, Sir
James Harcourt at his toilette received this day's letters, which he read,
as usual, while his hair was dressing. Some of these letters were from
creditors, who were impatient to hear when his _advantageous marriage_
would be concluded, or when he would obtain that place which had been so
long promised. The place at court, as he was by this post informed by a
_private, very confidential_ letter, under a government cover and huge
seal, from his intimate friend, my Lord Skreene, ministers had found
themselves under the unfortunate necessity of giving away, to secure three
votes on a certain cabinet question.

Sir James threw the letter from him, without reading the rest of his
dear friend's official apologies: "So, the place at court is out of the
question--a wife must be my last resource," thought he, "but how to bring
her to the point?"

Sir James knew that though he was now in high favour, he might, at some
sudden turn of caprice, be discarded or deserted by his fair one, as had
been the fate of so many of his predecessors. The ruling passion, vanity,
must be touched, and the obvious means of awakening jealousy were in
his power. He determined to pay attentions to Miss Caroline Percy: his
experience in the tactics of gallantry supplying the place of knowledge of
the human heart, he counterfeited the symptoms of a new passion, and acted
"The Inconstant" so well, that Lady Angelica had no doubt of his being
what be appeared. She was not prepared for this turn of fate, well as she
thought she knew her game, and at this unlucky moment, just when she wanted
to play off Sir James against Mr. Barclay--and in an old castle in the
country too, where no substitute was to be had!

Her ladyship was the more vexed, because Mrs. Hungerford must see her
distress. Unused to any thing that opposed her wishes, she lost all temper,
and every word and look manifested resentment and disdain towards her
innocent and generous rival. In this jealousy, as there was no mixture of
love to colour and conceal its nature, it could not pass for refinement of
sentiment--it bore no resemblance to any thing noble--it must have been
detected, even by a less penetrating and less interested observer than Mr.
Barclay. His eyes were now completely opened.

In the mean time, Caroline's character, the more it was brought into light,
the more its value, goodness, and purity appeared. In the education of a
beauty, as of a prince, it is essential early to inspire an utter contempt
of flattery, and to give the habit of observing, and consequently the power
of judging, of character.

Caroline, on this occasion, when, perhaps, some little temptation
might have been felt by some ladies, remembered her own prayer against
coquetry--her manner towards Sir James was free from all possibility of
reproach or misconstruction: and by simply and steadily adhering to the
truth, and going the straight road, she avoided all the difficulties in
which she would have been involved, had she deviated but for a moment into
any crooked path.

But to return to Lady Angelica Headingham. She was pleased to see Sir James
Harcourt disconcerted, and delighted to see him mortified. Her ladyship's
disdainful manner towards Caroline was thrown aside,

  "And all the cruel language of the eye"

changed at once. Lady Angelica acknowledged that no one could show more
magnanimity than Miss Caroline Percy had displayed in her conduct to Sir
James Harcourt. This speech was made of course to be repeated, and when
Caroline heard it she could not help smiling at the word magnanimity, which
sounded to her rather too grand for the occasion.

Sir James Harcourt finding himself completely foiled in his schemes, and
perceiving that the parties were closing and combining in a manner which
his knowledge of the world had not taught him to foresee, endeavoured with
all possible address and expedition to make his separate peace with Lady
Angelica. Her ladyship, however, was proud to show that she had too much
sense and spirit to accept again the homage of this recreant knight. He
had not time to sue for pardon--his adventure might have ended in a jail;
so forthwith he took his departure from Hungerford Castle, undetermined
whether he should again haste to court to beg a place, or bend his course
to the city, there to barter his fashion against the solid gold of some
merchant, rolling in his majesty's coin, who might be silly enough to give
his daughter, for a bow, to a courtier without a shilling. On one point,
however, Sir James was decided--betide him weal, betide him woe--that his
next mistress should neither be a wit, nor a beauty, nor yet a patroness.

After the departure of the baronet, the Lady Angelica expected to find her
remaining lover at her feet, in transports of joy and gratitude for this
haughty dismissal of his rival. No such thing: Mr. Barclay seemed disposed
to throw himself at the feet of another, and of the last person in the
world at whose feet her ladyship could bear to think of seeing him. Yet if
she had even now taken Mrs. Hungerford's friendly warning, she might still
have saved herself from mortification; but she was hurried on by her evil
genius--the spirit of coquetry.

She had promised to pay a visit this summer to an aunt of Mr. Barclay, Lady
B----, who lived in Leicestershire. And now, when every thing was arranged
for her reception, Lady Angelica changed her mind, and told Mr. Barclay
that she could not go, that she had just received letters from town, from
several of her fashionable friends, who were setting out for Weymouth, and
who insisted upon her meeting them there--and there was a delightful Miss
Kew, a protge of hers, who was gone to Weymouth in the hope and trust
that her ladyship would _produce_ her and her new novel at the reading
parties which Lady Angelica had projected. She declared that she could
not possibly disappoint Miss Kew; besides, she had promised to carry Mr.
Seebright to Weymouth, to introduce him and his poem to her friends--his
subscription and the success of his poem entirely depended upon her going
to Weymouth--she could not possibly disappoint _him_.

Mr. Barclay thought more of his own disappointment--and said so: at which
her ladyship rejoiced, for she wished to make this a trial of her power;
and she desired rather that her reasons should not appear valid, and that
her excuses should not be reasonable, on purpose that she might compel
Mr. Barclay to submit to her caprice, and carry him off in triumph in her
train.

She carelessly repeated that Leicestershire was out of the question at this
time, but that Mr. Barclay might attend her, if he pleased.

But it did not please him: he did not think that his aunt was properly
treated, and he preferred her to all the bel-esprits and fine ladies who
were going to Weymouth--her charming self excepted.

She depended too much on the power of that charming self. Mr. Barclay,
whose bands she had gradually loosened, now made one resolute effort,
asserted and recovered his liberty. He declared that to Weymouth he could
not have the honour of attending her: if her ladyship thought the claims
and feelings of her protges of greater consequence than his, if she held
herself more bound by the promises she had given to Mr. Seebright, Miss
Kew, or any of her bel-esprit friends, than by those with which she had
honoured his aunt, he could not presume to dispute her pleasure, or further
to press Lady B.'s request; he could only lament--and submit.

Lady Angelica flattered herself that this was only a bravado, or a
temporary ebullition of courage, but, to her surprise and dismay, Mr.
Barclay continued firm, calm, and civil. His heart now turned to the object
on which his understanding had long since told him it should fix. He saw
that Miss Caroline Percy was all that could make him happy for life, if he
could win her affections; but of the possibility of succeeding he had great
doubts. He had, to be sure, some circumstances in his favour: he was of a
good family, and had a considerable fortune; in a worldly point of view
he was a most advantageous match for Caroline Percy, but he knew that an
establishment was not the _first_ object, either with her, or with her
parents; neither could he wish that any motives of interest should operate
in his favour. His character, his principles, were good, and he had reason
to believe that Mr. Percy was impressed with a highly favourable opinion of
his good sense and general understanding. Caroline talked to him always as
if she liked his conversation, and felt esteem for his character; but the
very freedom and ease of her manner showed that she had no thoughts of him.
He was many years older than Caroline: it did not amount to an absolute
disparity, but it was an alarming difference. Mr. Barclay, who estimated
himself with perfect impartiality and candour, was sensible that though
his temper was good, yet that he was somewhat fastidious, and though his
manners were polite, yet they were reserved--they wanted that amenity,
gaiety, and frankness, which might be essential to win and keep a lady's
heart. The more his love, the more doubts of his own deserts increased;
but at last he determined to try his fate. He caught a glimpse of Caroline
one morning as she was drawing in the Oriel. Her sister and the two Lady
Pembrokes were in the library, and he thought he was secure of finding her
alone.

"May I beg the favour of a few minutes?"--he began with a voice of much
emotion as he entered the room; but he stopped short at the sight of Lady
Angelica.

In spite of all the rouge she wore, her ladyship's change of colour was
striking. Her lips trembled and grew pale. Mr. Barclay's eyes fixed
upon her for one moment with astonishment, then turning calmly away, he
addressed himself to Caroline, his emotion recurring, though he merely
spoke to her of a drawing which she was examining, and though he only said,
"Is this yours?"

"Yes, Lady Angelica has just given it to me; it is one of her drawings--a
view of Weymouth."

"Very beautiful," said Mr. Barclay, coldly--"a view of Weymouth."

"Where I hope to be the day after to-morrow," cried Lady Angelica, speaking
in a hurried, piqued, and haughty voice--"I am dying to get to Weymouth.
Mr. Barclay, if you have any letters for your friends there, I shall be
happy to carry them. Only let them be given to my woman in time," added her
ladyship, rising; "and now I must go and say _vivace! presto! prestissimo!_
to her preparations. Well, have you any commands?"

"No commands--but my best wishes for your ladyship's health and happiness,
whenever and wherever you go."

Lady Angelica sunk down upon her seat--made a strong effort to rise
again--but was unable. Caroline, without appearing to take any notice of
this, turned to Mr. Barclay, and said, "Will you have the goodness now to
give me the book which you were so kind as to promise me?"

Mr. Barclay went in search of it. Caroline proceeded with her drawing, gave
Lady Angelica time to recover, and left her the hope that her perturbation
had not been noticed. Her ladyship, as soon as she could, left the room,
repeating that she had some orders to give for her departure. Caroline
waited some time in vain for Mr. Barclay and his book. Afterwards, as
she was going up stairs, she was met by Rosamond, who, with a face full
of mystery, whispered, "Caroline, my father wants you this instant in
my mother's dressing-room--Mr. Barclay," added she, in a low voice, and
nodding her head, "Oh! I see you know what I mean--I knew how it would
be--I said so last night. Now go to my father, and you will hear all the
particulars."

Caroline heard from her father the confirmation of Rosamond's intelligence,
and she received from him and from her mother the kind assurance that
they would leave her entirely at liberty to accept or refuse Mr. Barclay,
according as her own judgment and feelings might dictate. They said, that
though it might be, in point of fortune, a highly advantageous match,
and though they saw nothing to which they could object in his character,
understanding, and temper, yet they should not attempt to influence her in
his favour. They begged her to decide entirely for herself, and to consult
only her own happiness.

"All I insist upon, my dear daughter, is, that you should, without any
idle or unjust generosity, consider first and solely what is for your own
happiness."

"And for Mr. Barclay's," said Caroline.

"And for Mr. Barclay's, as far as you are concerned: but, remember, the
question he asks you is, whether you can love him, whether you will marry
him, not whether you would advise him to love or marry somebody else? Don't
I know all that passes in your mind?"

"Not all, perhaps," said Caroline, "nor can I tell it you, because it is
another person's secret; therefore, I am sure you will not question me
further: but since you are so kind as to trust to my judgment, trust to
it entirely, when I assure you that I will, without any idle or unjust
generosity, consider, principally, what is for my own happiness."

"I am satisfied," said Mr. Percy, "no--one thing more: without meaning or
wishing to penetrate into any other person's affairs, I have a full right
to say to my daughter all that may be necessary to assist her in deciding
on a point the most material to her happiness. Now, Caroline," continued
her father, looking away from her, "observe, I do not endeavour, from my
knowledge of your countenance, even to guess whether what I imagine is
fact; but I state to you this supposition--suppose you had been told that
another lady is attached to Mr. Barclay?"

"I never was told so," interrupted Caroline, "but I have discovered it
by accident--No, I have said too much--I do not think _that person_ is
attached to him, but that she might easily have become attached, if this
proposal had been made to her instead of to me; and I think that their
two characters are exactly suited to each other--much better suited than
mine could be to Mr. Barclay, or his to me: she has wit and imagination,
and great vivacity; he has judgment, prudence, and solid sense: in each
there is what would compensate for what is wanting in the other, and both
together would make a happy union."

"My dear Caroline," said her father, "I must put you upon your guard
against the too easy faith of a sincere affectionate heart. I am really
surprised that you, who have always shown such good judgment of character,
should now be so totally mistaken as to think a woman capable of a real
love who is merely acting a part from vanity and coquetry."

"Vanity! coquetry!" repeated Caroline: "nobody upon earth is more free from
vanity and coquetry than--Surely you do not imagine I am thinking of Lady
Angelica Headingham?--Oh! no; I have no compassion for her. I know that if
she suffers from losing Mr. Barclay, it will be only from losing 'the dear
delight of giving pain,' and I should be very sorry she ever again enjoyed
that delight at Mr. Barclay's expense. I assure you, I am not thinking of
Lady Angelica."

Both Mr. and Mrs. Percy were in doubt whether Caroline was thinking of her
sister Rosamond or of her friend Lady Mary Pembroke; but without attempting
to discover, they only repeated that, whoever the person in question might
be, or however amiable or dear to Caroline, she ought not to let this idea
interfere with her own happiness, or influence her in giving an answer
to Mr. Barclay's proposal, which she ought either to accept or decline,
according as her own feelings and judgment should decide.--"If you wish
to take time to decide, your father and I will make Mr. Barclay clearly
understand that he is not to consider this as any encouragement; and as to
the rest," added Mrs. Percy, "when you are sure that you mean right, and
that you do right, you will not, my dear Caroline, I hope, be deterred from
determining upon what is best for your own happiness, merely by the weak
fear of what idle foolish people will say about an affair in which they
have no concern."

Caroline assured her mother that no such weak fear acted upon her mind; and
that in any case where she had the least doubt whether she could like a
person as a husband or not, she should certainly ask for time to consider,
before she would give an answer; but that, with respect to Mr. Barclay,
she had had sufficient opportunities of seeing and judging of him in the
character of a lover, whilst he had been the admirer of Lady Angelica;
that she fully appreciated his good qualities, and was grateful for his
favourable opinion; but that she felt perfectly certain that she did not
and could not love him; and therefore she desired, as soon as possible,
to put him out of the pain of suspense, to prevent him from having the
mortification of showing himself the admirer of one by whom he must
ultimately be refused; and to leave him at liberty to turn his thoughts
elsewhere, to some person to whom he was better suited, and who was better
suited to him.

Mr. Barclay had made Mrs. Hungerford alone his confidant. As to Lady
Angelica Headingham, he thought that her ladyship could not be in any doubt
of the state of his affections as far as she was concerned, and that was
all she had a right to know. He never had actually declared his passion
for her, and his attentions had completely ceased since the determination
she had made to break her engagement with his aunt; but Lady Angelica had
still imagined that he would not be able to bring himself to part with
her for ever, and she trusted that, even at the moment of getting into
her carriage, she might prevail upon him to forget his wrongs, and might
at last carry him off. These hopes had been checked, and for a moment
overthrown, by Mr. Barclay's appearance this morning in the Oriel; the
emotion with which she saw him speak to Caroline, and the indifference with
which she heard him wish her ladyship health and happiness at Weymouth, or
wherever she went, for an instant convinced her of the truth. But obstinate
vanity recurred to the hope that he was not yet irreclaimable, and under
this persuasion she hurried on the preparations for her departure,
impatient for the moment of crisis--of triumph.

The moment of crisis arrived--but not of triumph. Lady Angelica
Headingham's landau came to the door. But _trunks packed and corded_ gave
no pang to her former lover--Mrs. Hungerford did not press her to stay--Mr.
Barclay handed her into the carriage--she stooped to conquer, so far as to
tell him that, as she had only Mr. Seebright and her maid, she could give
him a seat in her carriage, if he would come to Weymouth, and that she
would thence, in a fortnight at farthest, go to his aunt, dear Lady B----,
in Leicestershire. But all in vain--she saw it would not do--bid her
servant shut the carriage-door--desired Mr. Seebright to draw up the glass,
and, with a look of angry contempt towards Mr. Barclay, threw herself back
on the seat to conceal the vexation which she could not control, and drove
away for ever from irreclaimable lovers and lost friends. We do not envy
Mr. Seebright his trip to Weymouth with his patroness in this humour; but
without troubling ourselves further to inquire what became of her, we leave
her

  "To flaunt, and go down a disregarded thing."

Rosamond seemed to think that if Caroline married Mr. Barclay, the
dnouement would be too near, too clear, and commonplace: she said that in
this case Caroline would just be married, like any body else, to a man with
a good fortune, good character, good sense, and every thing very good, but
nothing extraordinary, and she would be settled at Mr. Barclay's seat in
Leicestershire, and she would be Mrs. Barclay, and, perhaps, happy enough,
but nothing extraordinary.

This plain view of things, and this positive termination of all hope of
romance, did not please Rosamond's imagination. She was relieved, when
at last Caroline surprised her with the assurance that there was no
probability of Mr. Barclay's succeeding in his suit. "And yet," said
Caroline, "if I were compelled at this moment to marry, of all men I have
ever yet seen, Mr. Barclay is the person to whom I could engage myself with
the least reluctance--the person with whom I think I should have the best
security for happiness."

Rosamond's face again lengthened. "If that is the case," said she, "though
you have no intention of marrying him at present, you will, I suppose, be
_reasoned into_ marrying him in time."

"No," said Caroline, "for I cannot be reasoned into loving him."

"There's my own dear Caroline," cried Rosamond: "I was horribly afraid that
this man of sense would have convinced you that esteem was quite sufficient
without love."

"Impossible!" said Caroline. "There must be some very powerful motive that
could induce me to quit my family: I can conceive no motive sufficiently
powerful, except love."

Rosamond was delighted.

"For what else _could_ I marry?" continued Caroline: "I, who am left by
the kindest of parents freely to my own choice--could I marry for a house
in Leicestershire? or for a barouche and four? on Lady Jane Granville's
principles for _an establishment_? or on the _missy_ notion of being
married, and having a house of my own, and ordering my own dinner?--Was
this your notion of me?" said Caroline, with a look of such surprise, that
Rosamond was obliged to fall immediately to protestations, and appeals to
common sense. "How was it possible she could have formed such ideas!"

"Then why were you so much surprised and transported just now, when I told
you that no motive but love could induce me to marry?"

"I don't recollect being surprised--I was only delighted. I never suspected
that you could marry without love, but I thought that you and I might
differ as to the quantity--the degree."

"No common degree of love, and no common love, would be sufficient to
induce me to marry," said Caroline.

"Once, and but once, before in your life, you gave me the idea of your
having such an exalted opinion of love," replied Rosamond.

"But to return to Mr. Barclay," said Caroline. "I have, as I promised
my father that I would, consulted in the first place my own heart, and
considered my own happiness. He appears to me incapable of that enthusiasm
which rises either to the moral or intellectual sublime. I respect his
understanding, and esteem his principles; but in conversing with him,
I always feel--and in passing my life with him, how much more should I
feel!--that there is a want of the higher qualities of the mind. He shows
no invention, no genius, no magnanimity--nothing heroic, nothing great,
nothing which could waken sympathy, or excite that strong attachment,
which I think that I am capable of feeling for a superior character--for a
character at once good and great."

"And where upon earth are you to find such a man? Who is romantic now?"
cried Rosamond. "But I am very glad that you _are_ a little romantic; I am
glad that you have in you a touch of human absurdity, else how could you be
my sister, or how could I love you as I do?"

"I am heartily glad that you love me, but I am not sensible of my present
immediate claim to your love by my touch of human absurdity," said
Caroline, smiling. "What did I say, that was absurd or romantic?"

"My dear, people never think their own romance absurd. Well! granted that
you are not romantic, since that is a point which I find I must grant
before we can go on,--now, tell me, was Mr. Barclay very sorry when you
refused him?" said Rosamond.

"I dare not tell you that there is yet no danger of his breaking his
heart," said Caroline.

"So I thought," cried Rosamond, with a look of ineffable contempt. "I
thought he was not a man to break his heart for love. With all his sense, I
dare say he will go back to his Lady Angelica Headingham. I should not be
surprised if he went after her to Weymouth to-morrow."

"I should," said Caroline; "especially as he has just ordered his carriage
to take him to his aunt, Lady B----, in Leicestershire."

"Oh! poor man!" said Rosamond, "now I do pity him."

"Because he is going to his aunt?"

"No; Caroline--you are very cruel--because I am sure he is very much
touched and disappointed by your refusal. He cannot bear to see you again.
Poor! _poor_ Mr. Barclay! I have been shamefully ill-natured. I hope I did
not prejudice your mind against him--I'll go directly and take leave of
him--poor Mr. Barclay!"

Rosamond, however, returned a few minutes afterwards, to complain that Mr.
Barclay had not made efforts enough to persuade Caroline to listen to him.

"If he had been warmly in love, he would not so easily have given up hope.

  'None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair;
  But love can hope, where Reason should despair.'

"That, I think, is perfectly true," said Rosamond.

Never--begging Rosamond and the poet's pardon--never--except where
reason is very weak, or where the brightest fair has some touch of the
equivocating fiend. Love, let poets and lovers say what they will to the
contrary, can no more subsist without hope than flame can exist without
fuel. In all the cases cited to prove the contrary, we suspect that there
has been some inaccuracy in the experiment, and that by mistake a little,
a very little hope has been admitted. The slightest portion, a quantity
imperceptible to common observation, is known to be quite sufficient to
maintain the passion; but a total exclusion of hope secures its extinction.

Mr. Barclay's departure was much regretted by all at Hungerford Castle,
most, perhaps, by the person who expressed that regret the least, Lady
Mary Pembroke--who now silently enjoyed the full chorus of praise that
was poured forth in honour of the departed. Lady Mary's common mode of
enjoying the praise of her friends was not in silence; all she thought and
felt usually came to her lips with the ingenuous vivacity of youth and
innocence. Caroline had managed so well by not managing at all, that Lady
Mary, far from guessing the real cause of Mr. Barclay's sudden departure,
repeatedly expressed surprise that her aunt Hungerford did not press him to
stay a little longer; and once said she wondered how Mr. Barclay _could_
leave Hungerford Castle whilst Caroline was there; that she had begun to
think he had formed an attachment which would do him more honour than his
passion for Lady Angelica Headingham, but that she feared he would have
a relapse of that fit of folly, and that it would at last end fatally in
marriage.

Mrs. Hungerford smiled at the openness with which her niece told her
conjectures, and at the steadiness with which Caroline kept Mr. Barclay's
secret, by saying no more than just the thing she ought. "The power of
keeping a secret is very different from the habit of dissimulation. You
would convince me of this, if I had doubted it," said Mrs. Hungerford, to
Caroline. "Now that the affair is settled, my dear, I must insist upon
your praising me, as I have praised you for discretion. I hope I never
influenced your decision by word or look, but I will now own to you that
I was very anxious that you should decide precisely as you have done. Mr.
Barclay is a sensible man, an excellent man, one who will make any amiable
woman he marries happy. I am convinced of it, or I should not, as I do,
wish to see him married to my niece--yet I never thought him suited to
you. Yours is a character without pretension, yet one which, in love and
marriage, would not, I believe, be easily satisfied, would require great
qualities, a high tone of thought and action, a character superior and
lofty as your own."

Mrs. Hungerford paused, and seemed lost in thought. Caroline felt that this
lady had seen deeply into her mind. This conviction, beyond all praise,
and all demonstrations of fondness, increases affection, confidence, and
gratitude, in strong and generous minds. Caroline endeavoured, but could
not well express in words what she felt at this instant.

"My dear," said Mrs. Hungerford, "we know that we are speaking plain
truth to each other--we need no flowers of speech--I understand you, and
you understand me. We are suited to each other--yes, notwithstanding the
difference of age, and a thousand other differences, we are suited to
each other. This possibility of a friendship between youth and age is
one of the rewards Heaven grants to the early and late cultivation of
the understanding and of the affections. Late as it is with me in life,
I have not, thank God, survived my affections. How can I ever, whilst
I have such children, such friends!" After a pause of a few moments of
seemingly pleasurable reflections, Mrs. Hungerford continued, "I have
never considered friendship as but a name--as a mere worldly commerce
of interest: I believe in disinterested affection, taking the word
_disinterested_ in its proper sense; and I have still, believe me, the
power of sympathizing with a _young_ friend--such a young friend as
Caroline Percy. Early as it is with her in life, she has so cultivated her
understanding, so regulated her mind, that she cannot consider friendship
merely as a companionship in frivolous amusement, or a mixture of gossiping
confidences and idle sentiment; therefore, I am proud enough to hope that
she can and will be the friend of such an old woman as I am."

"It would be the pride of my life to have--to deserve such a friend,"
cried Caroline: "I feel all the condescension of this kindness. I know you
are much too good to me. I am afraid you think too highly of me. But Mrs.
Hungerford's praise does not operate like flattery: though it exalts me
in my own opinion, it shall not make me vain; it excites my ambition to
be--all she thinks me."

"You _are_ all I think you," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and that you may
hereafter be something yet nearer than a friend to me is the warmest wish
of my heart--But, no, I will not indulge myself in expressing that wish;
Such wishes are never wise where we have no power, no right to act--such
wishes often counteract their own object--anticipations are always
imprudent. But--about my niece, Lady Mary Pembroke. I particularly admire
the discretion, still more than the kindness, with which you have acted
with respect to her and Mr. Barclay--you have left things to their natural
course. You have not by any imprudent zeal or generosity hazarded a word
that could hurt the delicacy of either party. You seem to have been fully
aware that wherever the affections are concerned, the human mind is most
tenacious of what one half of the philosophers in the world will not allow
to exist, and the other half cannot define. Influenced as we all are every
moment in our preferences and aversions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes
avowedly, by the most trifling and often the silliest causes, yet the
wisest of us start, and back, and think it incumbent on our pride in love
affairs, to resist the slightest interference, or the best advice, from the
best friends. What! love upon compulsion! No--Jupiter is not more tenacious
of his thunderbolt than Cupid is of his arrows. Blind as he is, none may
presume to direct the hand of that little urchin."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who
brought the post-bag, with many letters for Mrs. Hungerford.




CHAPTER XVIII.


The arrival of the post was at this time an anxious moment to Mrs.
Hungerford, as she had so many near relations and friends in the army and
navy. This day brought letters, with news that lighted up her countenance
with dignified joy, one from Captain Hungerford, her second son, ten
minutes after an action at sea with the French.

"Dear mother--English victorious, of course; for particulars, see Gazette.
In the cockle shell I have, could do nothing worth mentioning, but am
promised a ship soon, and hope for opportunity to show myself worthy to be
your son.

"F. HUNGERFORD."

"I hope I am grateful to Providence for such children!" cried Mrs.
Hungerford.

Mrs. Mortimer darted upon Captain Hungerford's name in the Gazette--"And
I cannot refrain from mentioning to your lordships the gallant manner in
which I was seconded by Captain Hungerford."

"Happy mother that I am! And more happiness still--a letter also from my
colonel! Thanks of commanding officer--gallant conduct abroad--leave of
absence for three weeks--and will be here to-morrow!"

This news spread through the castle in a few minutes, and the whole house
was in motion and in joy.

"What is the matter?" said Rosamond, who had been out of the room when the
colonel's letter was read. "As I came down stairs, I met I can't tell how
many servants running different ways, with faces of delight. I do believe
Colonel Hungerford is come."

"Not come, but coming," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and I am proud that you, my
friends, should see what a sensation the first sound of his return makes in
his own _home_. There it is, after all, that you may best judge what a man
really is."

Every thing conspired to give Caroline a favourable idea of Colonel
Hungerford. He arrived--and his own appearance and manners, far from
contradicting, fully justified all that his friends had said. His
appearance was that of a soldier and a gentleman, with a fine person and
striking countenance, with the air of command, yet without presumption;
not without a consciousness of his own merit, but apparently with only
a consciousness sufficient to give value and grace to his deference for
others. To those he respected or loved, his manner was particularly
engaging; and the appropriate attentions he paid to each of his friends
proved that their peculiar tastes, their characteristic merits, and
their past kindnesses, were ever full in his remembrance. To his mother
his grateful affection, and the tender reverence he showed, were quite
touching; and the high opinion he had of her character, and the strong
influence she held over his mind, he seemed proud to avow in words and
actions. To his sister Mortimer, in a different but not less pleasing
manner, his affection appeared in a thousand little instances, which the
most polite courtiers, with the most officious desire to please, could
not without the happy inspiration of truth have invented. There were
innumerable slight strokes in his conversation with his sister which
marked the pleasure he felt in the recollection of their early friendship,
allusions to trivial passages in the history of their childhood, which none
of the important scenes in which he had since been engaged had effaced
from his mind; and at other times a playful carelessness, that showed
the lightness, the expanding freedom of heart, which can be felt only in
the perfect confidence and intimacy of domestic affection. In his manner
towards his cousins, the Lady Pembrokes, who, since he had last seen
them, had grown up from children into fine young women, there were nice
differences; with all the privileged familiarity of relationship he met
the sprightly frankness of Lady Mary, and by a degree of delicate tender
respect put the retiring sensitive timidity of Lady Elizabeth at ease.
None of these shades of manner were lost upon Caroline's discriminating
observation. For some time after his arrival, the whole attention of every
individual at Hungerford Castle was occupied by Colonel Hungerford. All
were alternately talking of him or listening to him. The eagerness which
every body felt to hear from him accounts of public and private affairs,
and the multitude and variety of questions by which he was assailed, drew
him out continually; so that he talked a great deal, yet evidently more
to gratify others than himself. He was always unwilling to engross the
conversation, and sometimes anxious to hear from his mother and sister of
domestic occurrences; but he postponed his own gratification, and never
failed to satisfy general curiosity, even by the repetition of narratives
and anecdotes, till he was exhausted. Conscious that he did not wish to
make himself the hero of his tale, he threw himself upon the mercy of his
friends, or their justice; and without any of the provoking reserve of
affected or cowardly humility, he talked naturally of the events in which
he had taken a share, and of what concerned himself as well as others. With
polite kindness, which gratified them peculiarly, he seemed to take the
Percy family, as his mother's friends, directly upon trust as his own: he
spoke before them, freely, of all his confidential opinions of men and
things. He did them justice in considering them as safe auditors, and they
enjoyed and fully appreciated the value of his various conversation. In his
anecdotes of persons, there was always something decidedly characteristic
of the individual, or illustrative of some general principle. In his
narratives there were strong marks of the Froissart accuracy of detail,
which interests by giving the impression of reality, and the proof of
having been an eye-witness of the scene; and sometimes, scorning detail,
he displayed the power of keeping an infinite number of particulars in
subordination, and of seizing those large features which gave a rapid and
masterly view of the whole. For his profession he felt that enthusiasm
which commands sympathy. Whilst he spoke of the British army, those who
heard him seemed to see every thing, as he did, in a military point of
view. Yet his love of military glory had not hardened his heart so as
to render him insensible of the evils and sufferings which, alas! it
necessarily produces. The natural expression of great feeling and humanity
burst from him; but he turned hastily and firmly from the contemplation
of evils, which he could not prevent, and would not uselessly deplore. In
conversing one day privately with Mr. Percy, he showed that bitter and deep
philosophic reflections on the horrors and folly of war had passed through
his mind, but that he had systematically and resolutely shut them out.

"We are now," said he, "less likely than ever to see the time when all the
princes of Europe will sign the good Abb de St. Pierre's project for a
perpetual peace; and, in the mean time, while kingdoms can maintain their
independence, their existence, only by superiority in war, it is not for
the defenders of their country to fix their thoughts upon 'the price of
victory.'"

After explaining the plan of a battle, or the intrigues of a court, Colonel
Hungerford would turn with delight to plans of cottages, which his sister
Mortimer was drawing for him; and from a map of the seat of war he would
go to a map of his own estate, eagerly asking his mother where she would
recommend that houses should be built, and consulting her about the
characters and merits of those tenants with whom his absence on the
continent had prevented him from becoming acquainted. These and a thousand
other little traits showed that his military habits had not destroyed his
domestic tastes.

Caroline had taken an interest in the military profession ever since her
eldest brother had gone into the army. Colonel Hungerford was seven or
eight years older than Godfrey Percy, and had a more formed, steady,
and exalted character, with more knowledge, and a far more cultivated
understanding; but many expressions, and some points of character, were
similar. Caroline observed this, and wished and hoped that, when her
brother should have had as many opportunities of improvement as Colonel
Hungerford's experience had given him, he might be just such a man. This
idea increased the interest she took in observing and listening to Colonel
Hungerford. After he had been some time at home, and that every day more
and more of his amiable character had been developed, Rosamond said to
herself, "This is certainly the man for Caroline, and I suspect she begins
to think so. If she does not, I never will forgive her."

One day, when the sisters were by themselves, Rosamond tried to sound
Caroline on this subject. She began, as she thought, at a safe distance
from her main object. "How very much esteemed and beloved Colonel
Hungerford is in his own family!"

"Very much and very deservedly," answered Caroline. She spoke without any
hesitation or embarrassment.

Rosamond, rather dissatisfied even with the fulness of the assent to her
first proposition, added, "And not only by his own family, but by all who
know him."

Caroline was silent.

"It is surprising," continued Rosamond, "that a man who has led a soldier's
wandering life should have acquired so much literature, such accurate
knowledge, and should have retained such simple and domestic tastes."

Full assent again from Caroline, both of look and voice--but still not the
exact look and voice Rosamond desired.

"Do you know, Caroline," continued she, "I think that in several things
Colonel Hungerford is very like my brother Godfrey."

"Yes, and in some points, I think Colonel Hungerford is superior to
Godfrey," said Caroline.

"Well, I really think so too," cried Rosamond, "and I am sure Godfrey would
think and say so himself. How he would admire Colonel Hungerford, and how
desirous, how ambitious he would be to make such a man his friend, his--in
short, I know if Godfrey was here this minute, he would think just as I do
about Colonel Hungerford, and about--all other things."

"All other things," repeated Caroline, smiling: "that includes a great
deal."

"Yes, it does, that is certain," said Rosamond, significantly. "And,"
continued she, "I know another person of excellent judgment too, who, if
I mistake not, is of my way of thinking, of wishing at least, in _some
things_, that is a comfort. How Mrs. Hungerford does adore her son! And I
think she loves you almost as much." Caroline expressed strong gratitude
for Mrs. Hungerford's kindness to her, and the warmest return of affection.

"Then, in one word," continued Rosamond, "for out it must come, sooner
or later--I think she not only loves you as if you were her daughter,
but that--Now confess, Caroline, did not the idea ever occur to you? And
don't you see that Mrs. Hungerford wishes _it_?--Oh! that blush is answer
enough--I'll say no more--I do not mean to torment or distress--good bye, I
am satisfied."

"Stay, my dear Rosamond, stay one moment, and I will tell you exactly all I
think and feel."

"I will stay as long as you please," said Rosamond, "and I thank you for
this confidence."

"You have a right to it," said Caroline: "I see, my dear sister, and feel
all your kindness towards me, and all Mrs. Hungerford's--I see what you
both wish."

"There's my own sister Caroline, above all artifice and affectation."

"But," said Caroline.

"_But_--Oh! Caroline, don't go back--don't palter with us--abide by your
own words, and your own character, and don't condescend to any pitiful
_buts_."

"You do not yet know the nature of my _but_."

"Nor do I wish to know it, nor will I hear it," cried Rosamond, stopping
her ears, "because I know, whatever it is, it will lower you in my opinion.
You have fairly acknowledged that Colonel Hungerford possesses every
virtue, public and private, that can make him worthy of you--not a single
fault on which to ground one possible, imaginable, rational _but_. Temper,
manners, talents, character, fortune, family, fame, every thing the heart
of woman can desire."

"Every thing against which the heart of woman should guard itself," said
Caroline.

"Guard!--Why guard?--What is it you suspect? What crime can you invent to
lay to his charge?"

"I suspect him of nothing. It is no crime--except, perhaps, in your eyes,
dear Rosamond," said Caroline, smiling--"no crime not to love me."

"Oh! is that all? Now I understand and forgive you," said Rosamond, "if it
is only _that_ you fear."

"I do not recollect that I said I _feared_ it," said Caroline.

"Well, well--I beg pardon for using that unguarded word--of course your
pride must neither hope nor fear upon the occasion; you must quite forget
yourself to stone. As you please, or rather as you think proper; but you
will allow me to hope and fear for you. Since I have not, thank Heaven!
made proud and vain professions of stoicism--have not vowed to throw away
the rose, lest I should be pricked by the thorn."

"Laugh, but hear me," said Caroline. "I make no professions of stoicism;
it is because I am conscious that I am no stoic that I have endeavoured to
guard well my heart.--I have seen and admired all Colonel Hungerford's good
and amiable qualities; I have seen and been grateful for all that you and
Mrs. Hungerford hoped and wished for my happiness--have not been insensible
to any of the delightful, any of the romantic circumstances of the
_vision_; but I saw it was only a vision--and one that might lead me into
waking, lasting misery."

"Misery! lasting! How?" said Rosamond.

"Neither your wishes nor Mrs. Hungerford's, you know, can or ought to
decide, or even to influence the event, that is to be determined by Colonel
Hungerford's own judgment and feelings, and by mine. In the mean time, I
cannot forget that the delicacy, honour, pride, prudence of our sex, forbid
a woman to think of any man, as a lover, till he gives her reason to
believe that he feels love for her."

"Certainly," said Rosamond; "but I take it for granted that Colonel
Hungerford does love you."

"But why should we take it for granted?" said Caroline: "he has not shown
me any preference."

"Why--I don't know, I am not skilled in these matters," said Rosamond--"I
am not sure--but I think--and yet I should be sorry to mislead you--at any
rate there is no harm in hoping--"

"If there be no harm, there might be much danger," said Caroline: "better
not to think of the subject at all, since we can do no good by thinking of
it, and may do harm."

After a pause of surprise, disappointment, and reflection, Rosamond
resumed: "So I am to understand it to be your opinion, that a woman of
sense, delicacy, proper pride, honour, and prudence, must, can, and ought
to shut her eyes, ears, understanding, and heart, against all the merit and
all the powers of pleasing a man may possess, till said man shall and do
make a matrimonial proposal for her in due form--hey! Caroline?"

"I never thought any such thing," answered Caroline, "and I expressed
myself very ill if I said any such thing. A woman need not shut her eyes,
ears, or understanding to a man's merit--only her heart."

"Then the irresistible charm, the supreme merit, the only merit that can or
ought to touch her heart in any man, is the simple or glorious circumstance
of his loving her?"

"I never heard that it was a man's supreme merit to love," said Caroline;
"but we are not at present inquiring what is a man's but what is a woman's
characteristic excellence. And I have heard it said to be a woman's supreme
merit, and grace, and dignity, that her love should _not unsought be won_."

"That is true," said Rosamond, "perfectly true--in general; but surely you
will allow that there may be cases in which it would be difficult to adhere
to the letter as well as to the spirit of this excellent rule. Have you
never felt--can't you imagine this?"

"I can well imagine it," said Caroline; "fortunately, I have never felt it.
If I had not early perceived that Colonel Hungerford was not thinking of
me, I might have deceived myself with false hopes: believe me, I never was
insensible to his merit."

"But where is the merit or the glory, if there was no struggle, no
difficulty?" said Rosamond, in a melancholy tone.

"Glory there is none," said Caroline; "nor do I claim any merit: but is not
it something to prevent struggle and difficulty? Is it nothing to preserve
my own happiness?"

"Something, to be sure," said Rosamond. "But, on the other hand, you know
there is the old proverb, 'Nothing hazard, nothing have.'"

"That is a masculine, not a feminine proverb," said Caroline.

"All I meant to say was, that there is no rule without an exception, as all
your philosophers, even the most rigid, allow; and if an exception be ever
permitted, surely in such a case as this it might, in favour of such a man
as Colonel Hungerford."

"Dangerous exceptions!" said Caroline. "Every body is too apt to make an
exception in such cases in their own favour: that, you know, is the common
error of the weak. Oh! my dear sister, instead of weakening, strengthen my
mind--instead of trying to raise my enthusiasm, or reproaching me for want
of sensibility, tell me that you approve of my exerting all my power over
myself to do that which I think right. Consider what evil I should bring
upon myself, if I became attached to a man who is not attached to me; if
you saw me sinking, an object of pity and contempt, the victim, the slave
of an unhappy passion."

"Oh! my dear, dear Caroline, that could never be--God forbid; oh! God
forbid!" cried Rosamond, with a look of terror: but recovering herself, she
added, "This is a vain fear. With your strength of mind, you could never be
reduced to such a condition."

"Who can answer for their strength of mind in the second trial, if it fail
in the first?" said Caroline. "If a woman once lets her affections go out
of her power, how can she afterwards answer for her own happiness?"

"All very right and very true," said Rosamond: "but for a young person,
Caroline, I could spare some of this premature reason. If there be some
folly, at least there is some generosity, some sensibility often joined
with a romantic temper: take care lest you 'mistake reverse of wrong for
right,' and in your great zeal to avoid romance, run into selfishness."

"Selfishness!"

"Why, yes--after all, what are these cold calculations about loving or not
loving such a character as Colonel Hungerford--what is all this
wonderfully long-sighted care of your own individual happiness, but
selfishness?--moral, very moral selfishness, I grant."

Caroline coloured, paused, and when she answered, she spoke in a lower and
graver tone and manner than usual.

"If it be selfish to pursue, by the best means in my power, and by means
which cannot hurt any human being, my own happiness, must I deserve to
be called selfish?--Unless a woman be quite unconnected with others in
society, without a family, and without friends--which, I thank God, is not
my situation--it is impossible to hazard or to destroy our own happiness
by any kind of imprudence, without destroying the happiness of others.
Therefore imprudence, call it romance, or what you please, is often want of
generosity--want of thought for the happiness of our friends, as well as
for our own."

"Well come off!" said Rosamond, laughing: "you have proved, with admirable
logic, that prudence is the height of generosity. But, my dear Caroline,
do not speak so very seriously, and do not look with such 'sweet austere
composure.'--I don't in earnest accuse you of selfishness--I was wrong to
use that ugly word; but I was vexed with you for being more prudent than
even good old Mrs. Hungerford."

At these words tears filled Caroline's eyes. "Dear, kind Mrs. Hungerford,"
she exclaimed, "in the warmth of her heart, in the fulness of her kindness
for me, once in her life Mrs. Hungerford said perhaps an imprudent word,
expressed a wish of which her better judgment may have repented."

"No, no!" cried Rosamond--"her better, her best judgment must have
confirmed her opinion of you. She never will repent of that wish. Why
should you think she has repented of it, Caroline?"

"Because she must by this time see that there is no probability of that
wish being accomplished: she must, therefore, desire that it should be
forgotten. And I trust I have acted, and shall always act, as if it were
forgotten by me, except as to its kindness--_that_ I shall remember while
I have life and feeling. But if I had built a romance upon that slight
word, consider how much that excellent friend would blame herself, when she
found that she had misled me, that she had been the cause of anguish to my
heart, that she had lowered in the opinion of all, even in her own opinion,
one she had once so exalted by her approbation and friendship. And, oh!
consider, Rosamond, what a return should I make for that friendship, if I
were to be the occasion of any misunderstanding, any disagreement between
her and her darling son. If _I_ were to become the rival of her beloved
niece!"

"Rival!--Niece!--How?--Which?" cried Rosamond, "Which?" repeated she,
eagerly; "I cannot think of any thing else, till you say which."

"Suppose Lady Elizabeth."

"The thought never occurred to me--Is it possible?--My dear Caroline, you
have opened my eyes--But are you sure? Then you have acted wisely, rightly,
Caroline; and I have as usual been very, _very_ imprudent. Forgive what I
said about selfishness--I was unjust. You selfish! you, who thought of all
your friends, I thought only of you. But tell me, did you think of Lady
Elizabeth from the first? Did you see how it would be from the very first?"

"No; I never thought of it till lately, and I am not sure of it yet."

"So you never thought of it till lately, and you are not sure of it
yet?--Then I dare say you are mistaken, and wrong, with all your
superfluous prudence. I will observe with my own eyes, and trust only my
own judgment."

With this laudable resolution Rosamond departed.

The next morning she had an opportunity of observing, and deciding by her
own judgment. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke and Caroline had both been copying a
picture of Prince Rupert when a boy. They had finished their copies. Mrs.
Hungerford showed them to her son. Lady Elizabeth's was rather the superior
painting. Colonel Hungerford instantly distinguished it, and, in strong
terms, expressed his admiration; but, by some mistake, he fancied that
both copies were done by Caroline: she explained to him that that which he
preferred was Lady Elizabeth's.

"Yours!" exclaimed Colonel Hungerford, turning to Lady Elizabeth with a
look and tone of delighted surprise. Lady Elizabeth coloured, Lady Mary
smiled: he forbore adding one word either of praise or observation.
Caroline gently relieved Mrs. Hungerford's hand from her copy of the
picture which she still held.

Rosamond, breathless, looked and looked and waited for something more
decisive.

"My mother wished for a copy of this picture," said Lady Elizabeth, in a
tremulous voice, and without raising her eyes, "for we have none but a vile
daub of him at Pembroke."

"Perhaps my aunt Pembroke would be so good to accept of the original?" said
Colonel Hungerford; "and my mother would beg of Lady Elizabeth to give her
copy to--our gallery."

"Do, my dear Elizabeth," said Mrs. Hungerford. Lady Elizabeth shook her
head, yet smiled.

"Do, my dear; you cannot refuse your cousin."

"_Cousin!_ there's hope still," thought Rosamond.

"If it were but worthy of his acceptance," said Lady Elizabeth.--Colonel
Hungerford, lost in the enjoyment of her self-timidity and retiring
grace, quite forgot to say how much he thought the picture worthy of his
acceptance.

His mother spoke for him.

"Since Hungerford asks you for it, my dear, you may be certain that he
thinks highly of it, for my son never flatters."

"Who? I!--flatter!" cried Colonel Hungerford; "flatter!" added he, in a
low voice, with a tenderness of accent and look, which could scarcely be
misunderstood. Nor was it misunderstood by Lady Elizabeth, as her quick
varying colour showed. It was well that, at this moment, no eye turned upon
Rosamond, for all her thoughts and feeling would have been read in her
face.

"Come," cried Lady Mary, "let us have the picture in its place
directly--come all of you to the gallery, fix where it shall be hung."
Colonel Hungerford seized upon it, and following Lady Elizabeth,
accompanied Lady Mary to the gallery. Mrs. Hungerford rose
deliberately--Caroline offered her arm.

"Yes, my dear child, let me lean upon you."

They walked slowly after the young party--Rosamond followed.

"I am afraid," said Mrs. Hungerford, as she leaned more upon Caroline, "I
am afraid I shall tire you, my dear."

"Oh! no, no!" said Caroline, "not in the least."

"I am growing so infirm, that I require a stronger arm, a kinder I can
never have."

The door of the antechamber, which opened into the gallery, closed after
the young people.

"I am not one of those _exigeante_ mothers who expect always to have
possession of a son's arm," resumed Mrs. Hungerford: "the time, I knew,
would come, when I must give up my colonel."

"And with pleasure, I am sure, you now give him up, secure of his
happiness," said Caroline.

Mrs. Hungerford stopped short, and looked full on Caroline, upon whom she
had previously avoided to turn her eyes. From what anxiety did Caroline's
serene, open countenance, and sweet ingenuous smile, at this instant,
relieve her friend! Old as she was, Mrs. Hungerford had quick and strong
feelings. For a moment she could not speak--she held out her arms to
Caroline, and folded her to her heart.

"Excellent creature!" said she--"Child of my affections--_that_ you must
ever be!"

"Oh! Mrs. Hungerford! my dear madam," cried Rosamond, "you have no idea how
unjust and imprudent I have been about Caroline."

"My love," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling, and wiping tears from her eyes,
"I fancy I can form a competent idea of your imprudence from my own. We
must all learn discretion from this dear girl--you, early--I, late in
life."

"Dear Rosamond, do not reproach yourself for your excessive kindness to
me," said Caroline; "in candour and generous feeling, who is equal to you?"

"Kissing one another, I protest," cried Lady Mary Pembroke, opening the
door from the gallery, "whilst we were wondering you did not come after us.
Aunt Hungerford, you know how we looked for the bow and arrows, and the
peaked shoes, with the knee-chains of the time of Edward the Fourth. Well,
they are all behind the great armoury press, which Gustavus has been moving
to make room for Elizabeth's copy of Prince Rupert. Do come and look at
them--but stay, first I have a favour to beg of you, Caroline. I know
Gustavus will ask my sister to ride with him this morning, and the flies
torment her horse so, and she is such a coward, that she will not be able
to listen to a word that is said to her--could you lend her your pretty
gentle White Surrey?"

"With pleasure," said Caroline, "and my net."

"I will go and bring it to your ladyship," said Rosamond.

"My ladyship is in no hurry," cried Lady Mary--"don't run away, don't go:
it is not wanted yet."

But Rosamond, glad to escape, ran away, saying, "There is some of the
fringe off--I must sew it on."

Rosamond, as she sewed on the fringe, sighed--and worked--and wished it was
for Caroline, and said to herself, "So it is all over--and all in vain!"

The horses for the happy riding party came to the door. Rosamond ran down
stairs with the net; Caroline had it put on her horse, and Lady Elizabeth
Pembroke thanked her with such a look of kindness, of secure faith in her
friend's sympathy, that even Rosamond forgave her for being happy. But
Rosamond could not wish to stay to witness her happiness just at this time;
and she was not sorry when her father announced the next day that business
required his immediate return home. Lamentations, loud and sincere, were
heard from every individual in the castle, especially from Mrs. Hungerford,
and from her daughter. They were, however, too well bred to persist in
their solicitations to have the visit prolonged.

They said they were grateful for the time which had been given to them,
and appeared kindly satisfied with their friends' promise to repeat their
visit, whenever they could with convenience.

Caroline, tenderly and gratefully attached to Mrs. Hungerford, found it
very difficult and painful to part from her; the more painful because she
feared to express all the affection, admiration, and gratitude she felt
for this excellent friend, lest her emotion might be misinterpreted. Mrs.
Hungerford understood her thoroughly. When she took leave of her, she
kissed her at first in silence, and then, by a few strong words, and more
by her manner than by her words, expressed her high esteem and affection
for her young friend.




CHAPTER XIX.


LETTER FROM DR. PERCY TO HIS SISTER ROSAMOND.

"I never told you, my dear Rosamond, that the beautiful Constance was
Mr. Gresham's daughter; I told you only that I saw her at his house.
To the best of my belief she is no relation to him. She is daughter to
Mr. Gresham's sick partner; and this partner--now, Rosamond, here is
coincidence, if not romance, enough to please you--this partner is Mr.
Panton, the London correspondent of the shipwrecked Dutch merchants, the
very Panton and Co. to whom my father lately wrote to recommend Godfrey's
friend, young Captain Henry--captain no more. I have not seen him yet;
he is invisible, in the counting-house, in the remote city, in ultimate
Broad-street, far as pole from pole from me at _Mrs._ Panton's fine house
in Grosvenor-square.

"But now to have done with an old story, before I begin with a new--I will
tell you at once all I know, or probably shall ever know, about Constance.
She is sole heiress to her father's fortune, which, on his repeated word, I
believe, amounts to hundreds of thousands. She is accomplished and amiable,
and, as I told you before, beautiful: but luckily her style of beauty,
which is that of one of Rubens' wives, does not particularly strike my
fancy. Besides, I would really and truly rather have a profession than be
an idle gentleman: I love my profession, and feel ambitious to distinguish
myself in it, and to make you all proud of your brother, Dr. Percy. These
general principles are strengthened beyond the possibility of doubt, by the
particular circumstances of _the present case_. A young unknown physician,
I have been introduced by a friend to this family, and have, in my medical
capacity, been admitted to a degree of familiarity in the house which none
shall ever have cause to repent. Physicians, I think, are called upon for
scrupulous _good faith_, because in some respects, they are more trusted in
families, and have more opportunities of intimacy, than those of any other
profession. I know, my dear Rosamond, you will not suspect me of assuming
fine sentiments that are foreign to my real feelings; but I must now inform
you, that if I could make myself agreeable and acceptable to Miss Panton,
and if it were equally in my will and in my power, yet I should never be,
in the language of the market, one shilling the better for her. Her father,
a man of low birth, and having, perhaps, in spite of his wealth, suffered
from the proud man's contumely, has determined to ennoble his family by
means of his only child, and she is not to enjoy his fortune unless she
marry one who has a title. If she unites herself with any man, below the
rank of a baron's son, he swears she shall never see the colour of sixpence
of his money. I understand that a certain Lord Roadster, eldest son of
Lord Runnymede, is the present candidate for her favour--or rather for her
wealth; and that his lordship is _patronized_ by her father. Every thing
that could be done by the vulgar selfishness and moneyed pride of her
father and mother-in-law to spoil this young lady, and to make her consider
herself as the first and only object of consequence in this world, has been
done--and yet she is not in the least spoiled. Shame to all systems of
education! there are some natures so good, that they will go right, where
all about them go wrong. My father will not admit this, and will exclaim,
Nonsense!--I will try to say something that he will allow to be sense. Miss
Panton's own mother was of a good family, and, I am told, was an amiable
woman, of agreeable manners, and a cultivated mind, who had been sacrificed
for fortune to this rich city husband. Her daughter's first principles and
ideas of manners and morals were, I suppose, formed by her precepts and
example. After her mother's death, I know she had the advantage of an
excellent and enlightened friend in her father's partner, Mr. Gresham, who,
having no children of his own, took pleasure, at all his leisure moments,
in improving little Constance. Then the contrast between her father and
him, between their ignorance and his enlightened liberality, must have
early struck her mind, and thus, I suppose, by observing their faults
and follies, she learned to form for herself an opposite character and
manners. The present Mrs. Panton is only her step-mother. Mrs. Panton is a
huge, protuberant woman, with a full-blown face, a bay wig, and artificial
flowers; talking in an affected little voice, when she is in company, and
when she has on her _company clothes and manners_; but bawling loud, in a
vulgarly broad cockney dialect, when she is at her ease in her own house.
She has an inordinate passion for dress, and a _rage_ for fine people. I
have a chance of becoming a favourite, because I am 'of a good _fammully_,"
and Mrs. Panton says she knows very well I have been egg and bird in the
best company.

"My patient--observe, my patient is the last person of whom I speak or
think--is nervous and hypochondriac; but as I do not believe that you have
much taste for medical detail, I shall not trouble you with the particulars
of this old gentleman's case, but pray for his recovery--for if I succeed
in setting him up again, it will set me up.... For the first time I have,
this day, after many calls, seen Godfrey's friend, young Mr. Henry. He
is handsome, and, as you ladies say, _interesting_. He is particularly
gentlemanlike in his manners; but he looks unhappy, and I thought he was
reserved towards me; but I have no right yet to expect that he should be
otherwise. He spoke of Godfrey with strong affection.

"Yours, truly,

"ERASMUS PERCY."

In the care of Mr. Panton's health, Dr. Percy was now the immediate
successor to a certain apothecary of the name of Coxeater, who, by right of
flattery, had reigned for many years over the family with arbitrary sway,
till he offended the lady of the house by agreeing with her husband upon
some disputed point about a julep. The apothecary had a terrible loss of
old Panton, for he swallowed more drugs in the course of a week than any
man in the city swallows in a year. At the same time, he was so economical
of these very drugs, that when Dr. Percy ordered the removal from his
bedchamber of a range of half full phials, he was actually near crying at
the thoughts of the waste of such a quantity of good physic: he finished by
turning away a footman for laughing at his ridiculous distress. Panton was
obstinate by fits, but touch his fears about his health, and he would be as
docile as the _bon vivant_ seigneur in Zadig, whose physician had no credit
with him when he digested well, but who governed him despotically whenever
he had an indigestion; so that he was ready to take any thing that could be
prescribed, even a basilisk stewed in rose-water. This merchant, retired
from business, was now as much engrossed with his health as ever he had
been with his wealth.

When Dr. Percy was first called in, he found his patient in a lamentable
state, in an arm-chair, dying with the apprehension of having swallowed
in a peach a live earwig, which he was persuaded had bred, was breeding,
or would breed in his stomach. However ridiculous this fancy may appear,
it had taken such hold of the man, that he was really wasting away--his
appetite failing as well as his spirits. He would not take the least
exercise, or stir from his chair, scarcely move or permit himself to be
moved, hand, foot, or head, lest he should disturb or waken this nest of
earwigs. Whilst these "_reptiles_" slept, he said, he had rest; but when
they wakened, he felt them crawling about and pinching his intestines. The
wife had laughed, and the apothecary had flattered in vain: Panton angrily
persisted in the assertion that he should die--and then they'd "see who was
right." Dr. Percy recollected a case, which he had heard from a celebrated
physician, of a hypochondriac, who fancied that his intestines were sealed
up by a piece of wax which he had swallowed, and who, in this belief,
refused to eat or drink any thing. Instead of fighting against the fancy,
the judicious physician humoured it--showed the patient sealing-wax
dissolving in spirit of wine, and then persuaded him to take some of that
spirit to produce the same effect. The patient acceded to the reasoning,
took the remedy, said that he felt that his intestines were unsealing--were
unsealed: but, alas! they had been sealed so long, that they had lost
their natural powers and actions, and he died lamenting that his excellent
physician had not been called in soon enough.

Dr. Percy was more fortunate, for he came in time to kill the earwigs for
his patient before they had pinched him to death. Erasmus showed Mr. Panton
the experiment of killing one of these insects, by placing it within a
magic circle of oil, and prevailed upon him to destroy his diminutive
enemies with castor oil. When this _hallucination_, to speak in words of
learned length, when this hallucination was removed, there was a still more
difficult task, to cure our hypochondriac of the three remote causes of his
disease--idleness of mind--indolence of body--and the habit of drinking
every day a bottle of _London particular_: to prevail upon him to diminish
the quantity per diem was deemed impossible by his wife; especially as Mr.
Coxeater, the apothecary, had flattered him with the notion, that _to live
high_ was necessary for a gouty constitution, and that he was gouty.--N.B.
He never had the gout in his life.

Mrs. Panton augured ill of Dr. Percy's success, and Constance grew pale
when he touched upon this dangerous subject--the madeira. Yet he had hopes.
He recollected the ingenious manner in which Dr. Brown [Footnote: Vide Life
of Dr. Brown.] worked upon a Highland chieftain, to induce him to diminish
his diurnal quantity of _spirituous potation_. But there was no family
pride to work upon, at least no family arms were to be had. Erasmus found
a succedaneum, however, in the love of titles and of what are called
_fine people_. Lord Runnymede had given Mr. Panton a gold beaker, of
curious workmanship, on which his lordship's arms were engraved; of this
present the citizen was very fond and vain: observing this, Dr. Percy was
determined to render it subservient to his purposes. He knew they would be
right glad of any opportunity of producing and talking of this beaker to
all their acquaintance. He therefore advised--no, not _advised_; for with
some minds if you _advise_ you are not listened to, if you command you
are obeyed--he commanded that his patient should have his madeira always
decanted into the curious beaker, for certain galvanic advantages that
every knowing porter-drinker is aware of: Erasmus emptied a decanter of
madeira into the beaker to show that it held more than a quart. This last
circumstance decided Mr. Panton to give a solemn promise to abide by the
advice of his physician, who seized this auspicious moment to act upon the
imagination of his patient, by various medical anecdotes. Mr. Panton seemed
to be much struck with the account of bottles made of antimonial glass,
which continue, for years, to impregnate successive quantities of liquor
with the same antimonial virtues. Dr. Percy then produced a piece of
coloured crystal about the size of a large nut, which he directed his
patient to put into the beaker, and to add another of these medicated
crystals every day, till the vessel should be half full, to increase the
power of the drug by successive additions; and by this arrangement, Panton
was gradually reduced to half his usual quantity of wine.

Dr. Percy's next difficulty was how to supply the purse-full and
purse-proud citizen with motive and occupation. Mr. Panton had an utter
aversion and contempt for all science and literature; he could not conceive
that any man "could sit down to read for amusement," but he enjoyed a party
of pleasure in a good boat on the water, to one of the _aits_ or islets in
the Thames at the right season, to be regaled with eel-pie. One book he had
read, and one play he liked--no, not a play, but a pantomime. The book was
Robinson Crusoe--the pantomime, Harlequin Friday. He had been heard to say,
that if ever he had a villa, there should be in it an island like Robinson
Crusoe's; and why not a fortress, a castle, and a grotto? this would be
something new; and why should he not have his fancy, and why should not
there be _Panton's Folly_ as well as any of the thousand _Follies_ in
England? Surely he was rich enough to have a Folly. His physician cherished
this bright idea. Mrs. Panton was all this time dying to have a villa on
the Thames. Dr. Percy proposed that one should be made on Mr. Panton's
plan. The villa was bought, and every day the hypochondriac--hypochondriac
now no more--went to his villa-Crusoe, where he fussed, and furbished, and
toiled at his desert island in the Thames, as hard as ever he laboured to
make his _plum_ in the counting-house. In _due course_ he recovered his
health, and, to use his own expression, "became as alert as any man in all
England of his inches in the girth, thanks be to Dr. Percy!"

We find the following letter from Dr. Percy, written, as it appears, some
months after his first attendance upon Mr. Panton.

"Yes, my dear friends at home, Alfred tells you truth, and does not flatter
much. The having set up again this old citizen, who was thought bankrupt in
constitution, has done me honour in the city; and, as Alfred assures you,
has spread my name through Broad-street, and Fleet-street, and Milk-street,
embracing the wide extremes between High-Holborn and St. Mary Axe,

  'And even Islington has heard my fame.'

"In earnest, I am getting fast into practice in the city--and Rosamond must
not turn up her aristocratic lip at the city--very _good_ men, in every
sense of the word, some of the best men I know, inhabit what she is pleased
to call the wrong end of the town.

"Mr. Gresham is unceasing and indefatigable in his kindness to me. I
consider it as an instance of this kindness that he has found employment
for my poor friend, O'Brien; has made him his porter--a pleasanter place
than he had with the painter that pleased nobody: O'Brien sees me almost
every day, and rejoices in what he calls my prosperity.

"'Heaven for ever prosper your honour' is the beginning and end of all he
says, and, I believe, of all he thinks. Is not it singular, that my first
step towards getting into practice should have been prepared by that which
seemed to threaten my ruin--the quarrel with Frumpton about O'Brien and the
hospital?

"A delicacy strikes me, and begins at this moment, in the midst of my
prosperity, to make my pride uneasy.

"I am afraid that my father should say Erasmus gets on by patronage, after
all--by the patronage of a poor Irish porter and a rich English merchant.

"Adieu, my dear friends; you must not expect such long letters from me now
that I am becoming a busy man. Alfred and I see but little of one another,
we live at such a distance, and we are both so gloriously industrious. But
we have holiday minutes, when we meet and talk more in the same space of
time than any two wise men--I did not say, women--that you ever saw.

"Yours, affectionately,

"ERASMUS PERCY.

"P.S. I have just recollected that I forgot to answer your question about
Mr. Henry. I do see him whenever I have time to go, and whenever he will
come to Mr. Gresham's, which is very seldom. Mr. Gresham has begged him
repeatedly to come to his house every Sunday, when Henry must undoubtedly
be at leisure; yet Mr. Henry has been there but seldom since the first six
weeks after he came to London. I cannot yet understand whether this arises
from pride, or from some better motive. Mr. Gresham says he likes what he
has seen of him, and well observes, that a young officer, who has lived
a gay life in the army, must have great power over his own habits, and
something uncommon in his character, to be both willing and able thus
suddenly and completely to change his mode of life, and to conform to all
the restraints and disagreeable circumstances of his new situation."


EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM MR. PERCY TO ERASMUS PERCY.

"... Let me take the opportunity of your playful allusion to your present
patrons, a porter and a hypochondriac, seriously to explain to you my
principles about patronage--I never had any idea that you ought not to be
assisted by friends: friends which have been made for you by your parents
I consider as part of your patrimony. I inherited many from my father,
for which I respect and bless his name. During the course of my life, I
have had the happiness of gaining the regard of some persons of talents
and virtue, some of them in high station; this regard will extend to my
children while I live, and descend to them when I am no more. I never
_cultivated_ them with a view to advancing my family, but I make no doubt
that their friendship will assist my sons in their progress through their
several professions. I hold it to be just and right that friends should
give, and that young men should gratefully accept, all the means and
opportunities of bringing professional acquirements and abilities into
notice. Afterwards, the merit of the candidate, and his fitness for any
given situation, ought, and probably will, ultimately decide whether the
assistance has been properly or improperly given. If family friends procure
for any young man a reward of any kind which he has not merited, I should
object to that as much as if the place or the reward had been bestowed by a
professed patron from political or other interested motives. If my friends
were to assist you _merely_ because you were my sons, bore my name, or
represented the Percy estate, I should not think this just or honourable;
but they know the principles which have been instilled into you, and
the education you have received: from these they can form a judgment of
what you are likely to be, and for what situations you are qualified;
therefore it is but reasonable that they should recommend you preferably
to strangers, even of equal ability. Every young man has friends, and they
will do all they can to assist him: if they do so according to his merits,
they do well; if in spite of his demerits, they do ill; but whilst nothing
is practised to prevent the course of free competition, there can be no
evil to the community, and there is no injurious patronage. So much for
family friends. Now as to friends of your own making, they are as much your
own earning, and all the advantage they can be of to you is as honourably
yours, as your fees. Whatever assistance you may receive from Mr. Gresham I
consider in this light. As to gratitude--I acknowledge that in some cases
gratitude might be guilty of partial patronage.

"If you had saved a minister of state from breaking his neck, and he in
return had made you surgeon-general to our armies, without knowing whether
you were qualified for that situation, I should call that partial and
pernicious patronage; but if you had cured a great man of a dangerous
disease, and he afterwards exerted himself to recommend you as a physician
to his friends and acquaintance, this I should consider as part of your fit
reward.

"So now, my dear son, I hope you fully understand me, and that you will
not attribute to me false delicacies, and a prudery, a puritanism of
independence, which I utterly disclaim.--Go on, and prosper, and depend
upon the warm sympathy and entire approbation of your affectionate father,

"L. PERCY."


LETTER FROM ALFRED PERCY TO ROSAMOND.

"MY DEAR ROSAMOND,

"Thank you for your letters from Hungerford Castle. If Mr. Barclay had
been but ten years younger, and if he had been ten degrees more a laughing
philosopher, and if Caroline could but have loved him, I should have had
no objection to him for a brother-in-law; but as my three _ifs_ could not
be, I regret the Leicestershire estate as little as possible, and I will
console myself for not having the marriage settlements to draw.

"Your letters were great delights to me. I kept them to read when the
business of the day was done, and I read them by my single candle in my
lone chamber. I would rather live in my lone chamber all my days, and
never see a wax-light all my nights, than be married to your Lady Angelica
Headingham. I give Mr. Barclay joy of having escaped from her charms. I
prefer an indenture tripartite, however musty or tiresome, to a triple
tyrant, however fair or entertaining.

"So you expect me to be very entertaining next vacation, and you expect to
hear all I have seen, heard, felt, and understood since I came to London.
Alas! Rosamond, I have no wonders to relate; and lest you should be
disappointed when we meet, I had best tell you now and at once all I have
to say about myself. My history is much like that of the first years at the
bar of every young lawyer--short and bitter--much law and few fees. Some,
however, I have received.

"A few of my father's friends, who are so unfortunate as to be at law,
have been so good as to direct their attorneys to give me briefs. But most
of his friends, to my loss--I am too generous, observe, to say _to my
sorrow_--are wise enough to keep clear of lawsuits. I heard his friend, the
late chancellor, say the other day to some one who wanted to plunge into
a suit in Chancery, 'If any body were to take a fancy to a corner of my
estate, I would rather--provided always that nobody knew it--let him have
it than go to law for it.'

"But to go on with my own affairs.

"A little while after my interview with Lord Oldborough, his lordship, to
my surprise--for I thought his offer to assist me in my profession, if ever
it should lie in his line, was a mere courtier's promise--sent his attorney
to me, with a brief in a cause of Colonel Hauton's. The colonel has gone to
law (most ungrateful as he is) with his uncle, who was his guardian, and
who managed all his affairs for years. I need not explain to you the merits
of the suit, or the demerits of the plaintiff. It is enough to tell you
that I was all-glorious, with the hope of _making a good point_ which had
escaped the other counsel employed on our side; but the senior counsel
never acknowledged the assistance he had received from me--obtained a
nonsuit against the colonel, and had all the honour and triumph of the day.
Some few gentlemen of the bar knew the truth, and they were indignant. I
hear that my senior, whose name I will never tell you lest you should hate
it, has got into great practice by the gaining of this suit. Be that as it
may, I would not change places and feelings with him at this moment.

  'Grant me an honest fame, or grant me none!'

"Mr. Grose, Lord Oldborough's solicitor, a rich rogue and very saucy, was
obliged to employ me, because his client ordered it, and Lord Oldborough
is not a man to be disobeyed, either in private or public affairs: but the
attorney was obviously vexed and scandalized by his lordship's employing
me, a young barrister, of whom nobody had ever heard, and who was not
recommended by him, or under the protection even of any solicitor of
eminence. Mr. Grose knew well how the suit was gained, but he never
mentioned it to Lord Oldborough; on the contrary, he gave all the credit to
my _senior_. This dry story of a _point_ law is the most interesting thing
I have to tell you about myself. I have seen nothing, heard nothing, know
nothing, but of law, and I begin to feel it difficult to write, speak, or
think, in any but professional language. Tell my father, that I shall soon
come to talking law Latin and law French.

"I know no more of what is going on in this great metropolis than if I were
at Tobolski. Buckhurst Falconer used to be my newspaper, but since he has
given up all hopes of Caroline, he seldom comes near me. I have lost in
him my fashionable Daily Advertiser, my Belle Assemble, and tte--tte
magazine.

"Last Sunday, I went to his fashionable chapel to hear him preach: he is
much admired, but I don't like his manner or his sermons--too theatrical
and affected--too rhetorical and antithetical, evidently more suited to
display the talents of the preacher than to do honour to God or good
to man. He told me, that if he could preach himself into a deanery, he
should think he had preached to some purpose; and could die with a safe
conscience, as he should think he had not laboured in vain in his vocation.
Of all men, I think a dissipated clergyman is the most contemptible. How
much Commissioner Falconer has to answer for, who forced him, or who lured
him, knowing how unfit he was for it, into the church! The commissioner
frets because the price of iniquity has not yet been received--the living
of Chipping Friars is not yet Buckhurst's. The poor paralytic incumbent,
for whose death he is praying daily, is still living; and, as Buckhurst
says, may shake on many a long year. How Buckhurst lives in the mean time
at the rate he does I cannot tell you--that art of living in style upon
nothing is an art which I see practised by numbers, but which is still a
mystery to me. However, the Falconers seem in great favour at present; the
commissioner hopes Lord Oldborough may do something for Buckhurst. Last
Sunday, when I went to hear him preach, I saw the whole family of the
Falconers, in grandeur, in the Duke of Greenwich's seat. The Marchioness
of Twickenham was there, and looked beautiful, but, as I thought, unhappy.
After the sermon, I heard Lady Somebody, who was in the next seat to me,
whisper to a Lady Otherbody, just as she was rising after the blessing,
'My dear madam, did you hear the shocking report about the Marchioness of
Twickenham?' then a very close and confidential whisper; then, loud enough
for me to hear, 'But I do suppose, as there are hopes of an heir, all will
be hushed--for the present.'

"Just then the Duke of Greenwich and the marquis and marchioness came down
the aisle, and as they passed, my scandal-mongers smiled, and curtsied,
and were so delighted to see their dear marchioness! The Miss Falconers,
following in the wake of nobility, seemed too much charmed with themselves,
to see or know me--till Lord Oldborough, though listening to the duke,
espied me, and did me the honour to bow; then the misses put up their
glasses to see who I could be, and they also smiled, and curtsied, and were
delighted to see me.

"It is well for us that we don't live on their smiles and curtsies. They
went off in the Marchioness of Twickenham's superb equipage. I had a full
view of her as she drew up the glass, and a more melancholy countenance
than hers I have seldom seen. Lord Oldborough hoped my father was well--but
never mentioned Godfrey. The marchioness does not know me, but she turned
at the name of Percy, and I thought sighed. Now, Rosamond, I put that sigh
in for you--make what you can of it, and of the half-heard mysterious
whisper. I expect that you will have a romance in great forwardness, before
Monday, the 3rd of next month, when I hope to see you all.

"No letters from Godfrey.--Erasmus has been so busy of late, he tells
me, he has not had time to record for you all his doings. In one word,
he is doing exceedingly well. His practice increases every day in
the city in spite of Dr. Frumpton. Adieu till Monday, the 3rd--Happy
Monday!--'Restraint that sweetens liberty.' My dear Rosamond, which do
you think loves vacation-time most, a lawyer or a school-boy?

"I was interrupted just now by a letter from a certain farmer of the name
of Grimwood, who has written to me, 'because I am a friend to justice, and
my father's son,' &c., and has given me a long account of a quarrel he has
with Dr. Leicester about the tithe of peaches--said Grimwood is so angry,
that he can neither spell nor write intelligibly, and he swears that if it
cost him a thousand guineas in gold, he will have the law of the doctor.
I wish my father would be so kind as to send to Mr. Grimwood (he lives at
Pegginton), and advise him to keep clear of Attorney Sharpe, and to keep
cool, if possible, till Monday, the 3rd, and then I will make up the
quarrel if I can. Observe, more is to be done on Monday, the 3rd, than ever
was done on any other Monday.

"Your affectionate brother,

"ALFRED PERCY.

"P.S.--I open my letter to tell you a delightful piece of news--that Lord
Oldborough has taken Temple for his private secretary, and will bring him
in for the borough of ----. How his lordship found him out to be the author
of that famous pamphlet, which bore Cunningham's name, I do not know. I
know that I kept the secret, as in honour bound; but Lord Oldborough has
the best ways and means of obtaining intelligence of any man in England. It
is singular that he never said one word about the pamphlet to Temple, nor
ever appeared to him to know that it was his writing. I cannot understand
this."

To comprehend why Lord Oldborough had never mentioned the pamphlet to Mr.
Temple, it was necessary to know more than Alfred had opportunities of
discovering of this minister's character. His lordship did not choose to
acknowledge to the world that he had been duped by Cunningham Falconer.
Lord Oldborough would sooner repair an error than acknowledge it. Not that
he was uncandid; but he considered candour as dangerous and impolitic in a
public character.

Upon some occasion, soon after Mr. Temple came to be his lordship's
secretary, Mr. Temple acknowledged to a gentleman, in Lord Oldborough's
presence, some trifling official mistake he had made: Lord Oldborough, as
soon as the gentleman was gone, said to his secretary, "Sir, if you make
a mistake, repair it--that is sufficient. Sir, you are young in political
life--you don't know, I see, that candour hurts a political character in
the opinion of fools--that is, of the greater part of mankind. Candour may
be advantageous to a moral writer, or to a private gentleman, but not to
a minister of state. A statesman, if he would govern public opinion, must
establish a belief in his infallibility."

Upon this principle Lord Oldborough abided, not only by his own measures,
but by his own instruments--right or wrong, he was known to support those
whom he had once employed or patronised. Lucky this for the Falconer
family!


LETTER FROM ALFRED TO ERASMUS.

"MY DEAR DOCTOR,

"How I pity you who have no vacations! Please, when next you sum up the
advantages and disadvantages of the professions I of law and medicine, to
set down _vacations_ to the credit side of the law. You who work for life
and death can have no pause, no respite; whilst I from time to time may,
happily, leave all the property, real and personal, of my fellow-creatures,
to its lawful or unlawful owners. Now, for six good weeks to come, I
may hang sorrow and cast away care, and forget the sound and smell of
parchments, and the din of the courts.

"Here I am, a happy prisoner at large, in this nutshell of a house at the
Hills, which you have never seen since it has become the family mansion.
I am now in the actual tenure and occupation of the little room, commonly
called Rosamond's room, bounded on the N. E. W. and S. by blank--[N.B.
a very dangerous practice of leaving blanks for your boundaries in your
leases, as an eminent attorney told me last week.] Said room containing in
the whole 14 square feet 4-1/2 square inches, superficial measure, be the
same more or less. I don't know how my father and mother, and sisters, who
all their lives were used to range in spacious apartments, can live so
happily, cooped up as they now are; but their bodies, as well as minds,
seem to have a contractile power, which adapts them to their present
confined circumstances. Procrustes, though he was a mighty tyrant, could
fit only the body to the bed. I found all at home as cheerful and contented
as in the days when we lived magnificently at Percy-hall. I have not seen
the Hungerfords yet; Colonel H. is, I hear, attached to Lady Elizabeth
Pembroke. I know very little of her, but Caroline assures me she is an
amiable, sensible woman, well suited to him, and to all his family. I need
not, however, expatiate on this subject, for Caroline says that she wrote
you a long letter, the day after she returned from Hungerford Castle.

"I must tell you what has happened to me since I came to the country. Do
you remember my receiving a very angry, very ill-spelled letter, from a
certain Farmer Grimwood of Pegginton, who swore, that if it cost him a
thousand guineas in gold he would have the law of _the doctor_--viz. Dr.
Leicester--about a tithe of peaches? My father, at my request, was so good
as to send for said Grimwood, and to prevent him from having recourse in
his ire to Attorney Sharpe. With prodigious difficulty, the angry farmer
was restrained till my arrival; when I came home, I found him waiting for
me, and literally foaming at the mouth with the furious desire for law.
I flatter myself, I did listen to his story with a patience for which
Job might have been admired. I was well aware that till he had exhausted
himself, and was practically convinced that he had nothing more to say,
he would be incapable of listening to me, or to the voice of the angel of
peace. When at last absolute fatigue of reiteration had reduced him to
silence, when he had held me by the button till he was persuaded he had
made me fully master of his case, I prevailed upon him to let me hear what
could be said on the opposite side of the question; and after some hours'
cross-examination of six witnesses, repeaters, and reporters, and after an
infinite confusion of _said I's, and said he's_, it was made clearly to
appear that the whole quarrel originated in the mistake of a few words in
a message which Dr. Leicester's agent had given to his son, a boy of seven
years old, who had left it with a deaf gate-keeper of seventy-six, who
repeated it to Farmer Grimwood, at a moment when the farmer was over-heated
and overtired, and consequently prone to _misunderstanding_ and to anger.
The most curious circumstance in the whole business is, that the word
peaches had never been mentioned by Dr. Leicester's agent in the original
message; and Dr. Leicester really did not know that Mr. Grimwood of
Pegginton was possessed of a single peach. Grimwood, though uncommonly
obstinate and slow, is a just man; and when I at last brought the facts
with indisputable evidence home to his understanding, he acknowledged that
he had been too hasty, rejoiced that he had not gone to law, begged the
doctor and the doctor's agent's pardon, thanked me with his whole honest
heart, and went home in perfect charity with all mankind. Mr. Sharpe, who
soon heard of the amicable conclusion of this affair, laughs at me, and
pronounces that I shall never make a lawyer, and that my friends need never
flatter themselves with the notion of my rising at the bar.

"Yours truly,

"A. PERCY.

"My letter was forgotten yesterday, and I am glad of it. Blessings on
Farmer Grimwood of Pegginton! Little did I think that he and his quarrel
about tithe peaches would have such happy influence on my destiny.
Blessings on Farmer Grimwood of Pegginton! I repeat: he has been the cause
of my seeing such a--of my receiving such a look of approbation--such a
smile! She is niece to our good rector--come to spend a few days with him.
Grimwood went to the vicarage to make up his quarrel with Dr. Leicester--I
do not know what he said of me, but I find it has left a very favourable
impression in the good doctor's mind. He came here yesterday, and brought
with him his charming niece. My dear Erasmus, you know that I have often
prayed that I might never fall in love _seriously_, till I had some
reasonable prospect of being able to marry; but I begin to retract my
prayer for indifference, and to be of opinion that the most prudent thing
a professional man can do is to fall in love--to fall in love with such
a woman as Sophia Leicester. What a new motive for exertion! Animated by
delightful hope, perseverance, even in the most stupid drudgery, will be
pleasure. Hope!--but I am far from hope--far at this instant from knowing
distinctly what I hope--or wish--or mean. I will write again soon and
explain."




CHAPTER XX.


In several successive letters of Alfred to his brother, the progress of
his attachment to Miss Leicester is described. Instead of paying a visit
of a few days to her uncle, it appears that she stayed at the vicarage
during the whole of Alfred's vacation. Her mother died, and, contrary to
the expectation I of some of her admirers, Miss Leicester was left in
possession of only a moderate fortune. She showed much dignity under these
adverse circumstances, with a charming mixture of spirit and gentleness
of disposition. The change in her expectations, which deprived her of
some of her fashionable admirers, showed I her the superior sincerity and
steadiness of Alfred's sentiments. No promises were given on either side;
but it appears, that Alfred was permitted to live and labour upon hope. He
returned to London more eager than ever to pursue his profession.

We trust that our readers will be fully satisfied with this abridgment of
the affair, and will be more inclined to sympathize with Alfred, and to
wish well to his attachment, than if they had been fatigued with a volume
of his love-letters, and with those endless repetitions of the same
sentiments with which most lovers' letters abound.

Let us now go on to the affairs of Erasmus Percy.

Mr. Panton, provoked by his daughter's coldness towards Lord Roadster, had
begun shrewdly to suspect that the lady must be in love with some other
person. His young physician was the only man on whom he could fix his
suspicions. Constance seemed to be on a more confidential footing with him
than with any of the visitors who frequented his house; she had spoken of
him in terms of high approbation, and had not contradicted her father when
he had, purposely to try her, pronounced Dr. Percy to be the handsomest
young fellow he knew. While these suspicions were secretly gaining strength
in the father's mind, a circumstance occurred which confirmed them at once,
and caused them to burst forth with uncontrolled violence of expression.

Dr. Percy was called in to prescribe for a sick lawyer, and from this
lawyer's conversation he learnt that Lord Runnymede was a ruined man, and
that his son Lord Roadster's extravagance had been the cause of his ruin.
Erasmus determined to put Mr. Panton upon his guard, and thus, if possible,
to prevent the amiable Constance from becoming a victim to her father's
absurd ambition. With this view he went to Mr. Panton's. The old gentleman
was gone to dine with his club. Mrs. Panton, in her elegant language,
desired he would leave his business with her. When he had explained the
purport of his visit, after a variety of vulgar exclamations denoting
surprise and horror, and after paying many compliments to her own sagacity,
all which appeared incompatible with her astonishment, Mrs. Panton
expressed much gratitude to Erasmus, mixed with suppressed satisfaction,
and significant nods which he could not quite comprehend. Her gratitude was
interrupted, and the whole train of her ideas changed, by the entrance of
a milliner with new caps and artificial flowers. She, however, retained
sufficient recollection of what had passed, to call after Erasmus when
he had taken his leave, and to insist upon his coming to her party that
evening. This he declined. Then she said he _must_ dine with her next day,
for let him be never so busy, he must dine somewhere, and as good dine with
somebody as with nobody--in short, she would take no denial. The next day
Erasmus was received with ungracious oddity of manner by old Panton--the
only person in the drawing-room when he arrived. Erasmus was so much struck
with the gloom of his countenance, that he asked whether Mr. Panton felt
himself ill. Panton bared his wrist, and held out his hand to Erasmus
to feel his pulse--then withdrawing his hand, he exclaimed, "Nonsense!
I'm as well as any man in England. Pray, now, Doctor Percy, why don't
you get a wig?"--"Why should I, sir, when I have hair?" said Erasmus,
laughing.--"Pshaw! doctor, what signifies laughing when I am serious!--Why,
sir, in my youth every decent physician wore a wig, and I have no notion of
a good physician without a wig--particularly a young one. Sir, many people
have a great objection to a young physician for many reasons. And take my
advice in time, Doctor Percy--a wig, a proper wig, not one of your modern
natural scratches, but a decent powdered doctor's bob, would make you look
ten years older at one slap, and trust me you'd get into practice fast
enough then, and be sent for by many a sober family, that would never think
of letting you within their doors without the wig; for, sir, you are too
young and too handsome for a physician--Hey! what say you to the wig?"
concluded Panton, in a tone of such serious, yet comical impatience, that
Erasmus found it difficult to restrain a smile, whilst he answered that he
really did not think his charms were so dangerous that it was necessary to
disguise them by a wig; that as to his youth, it was an objection which
every day would tend to lessen; and that he trusted he might obtain the
credit of being a good physician if he could cure people of their diseases;
and they would feel it to be a matter of indifference whether they were
restored to health by a doctor in a wig or without one.

"Indifference!" cried Panton, starting upright in his chair with passion.
"I don't know what you call a matter of indifference, sir; I can tell you
its no matter of indifference to me--If you mean me; for say that with
God's mercy you carried me through, what then, if you are doing your best
to break my heart after all--"

Mr. Panton stopped short, for at this instant Constance came into the
room, and her father's look of angry suspicion, and her blush, immediately
explained to Erasmus what had the moment before appeared to him
unintelligible. He felt provoked with himself for colouring in his turn,
and being embarrassed without any reason, but he recovered his presence
of mind directly, when Constance, with a dignified ingenuous modesty of
manner, advanced towards him, notwithstanding her father's forbidding look,
and with a sweet, yet firm voice, thanked him for his yesterday's friendly
visit to her mother.

"I wonder you a'n't ashamed of yourself, girl!" cried old Panton, choking
with passion.

"And I'm sure I wonder you a'n't ashamed of yourself, Mr. Panton, if you
come to that," cried Mrs. Panton, "exposing of your family affairs this way
by your unseasonable passions, when one has asked people to dinner too."

"Dinner or no dinner," cried old Panton, and he must have been strangely
transported beyond himself when he made that exclamation, "dinner or no
dinner, Mrs. Panton, I will speak my mind, and be master in my own house!
So, Doctor Percy, if you please, we'll leave the ladies, and talk over our
matters our own way, in my own room here within."

Dr. Percy willingly acceded to this proposal. Old Panton waddled as fast as
he could to show the way through the antechamber, whilst Mrs. Panton called
after him, "Don't expose yourself no more than you can help, my dear!"
And as Erasmus passed her, she whispered, "Never mind him, doctor--stand
by yourself--I'll stand by you, and _we'll_ stand by you--won't we,
Constance?--see her colour!"--"We have reason to be grateful to Dr. Percy,"
said Constance, gravely, with an air of offended modesty; "and I hope,"
added she, with softened sweetness of tone, as she looked at him, and saw
his feelings in his countenance, "I hope Doctor Percy is assured of my
gratitude, and of my perfect esteem."

"Come! what the devil?" cried old Panton, "I thought you were close behind
me."

"Now, doctor," cried he, as soon as he had fairly got Erasmus into his
closet, and shut the door, "now, doctor, I suppose you see I am not a man
to be imposed upon?"

"Nor, if you were, am I a man to impose upon you, sir," said Erasmus. "If
I understand you rightly, Mr. Panton, you suspect me of some designs upon
your daughter? I have none."

"And you won't have the assurance to deny that you are in love with her?"

"I am not in love with Miss Panton, sir: she has charms and virtues which
might create the strongest attachment in the heart of any man of feeling
and discernment who could permit himself to think of her; but I am not in a
situation in which I could, with honour, seek to win her affections, and,
fortunately for me, this reflection has probably preserved my heart from
danger. If I felt any thing like love for your daughter, sir, you may be
assured that I should not, at this instant, be in your house."

"A mighty fine speech, sir! and well delivered, for aught I know. You are a
scholar, and can speak sentences; but that won't impose on me, a plain man
that has eyes. Why--tell me!--didn't I see you within these two minutes
blushing up to the eyes, both of you, at one another? Don't I know when I
see men and women in love--tell me! Mrs. Panton--fudge!--And did not I see
behind my back, just now, the women conjuring with you?--And aren't you
colouring over head and ears with conscience this very instant?--Tell me!"

Erasmus in vain asserted his own and the young lady's innocence, and
maintained that blushing was no proof of guilt--he even adverted to the
possibility of a man's blushing for others instead of himself.

"Blush for me as much as you please, if it's me you allude to," cried
the coarse father; "but when my daughter's at stake, I make no bones of
speaking plain, and cutting the matter short in the beginning--for we all
know what love is when it comes to a head. Marrow-bones! don't I know that
there must be some reason why that headstrong girl won't think of my Lord
Runnymede's son and heir, and such a looking youth, title and all, as my
Lord Roadster! And you are the cause, sir; and I thank you for opening my
eyes to it, as you did by your information to Mrs. Panton yesterday, in my
absence."

Erasmus protested with such an air of truth as would have convinced any
person capable of being convinced, that, in giving that information, he had
been actuated solely by a desire to save Miss Panton from a ruinous match,
by honest regard for her and all her family.

"Ruinous!--You are wrong, sir--I know better--I know best--I saw my Lord
Runnymede himself this very morning--a little temporary want of cash only
from the estate's being tied up, as they sometimes tie estates, which all
noble families is subject to--Tell me! don't I know the bottom of these
things? for though I haven't been used to land, I know all about it. And
at worst, my Lord Roadster, my son-in-law that is to be, is not chargeable
with a penny of his father's debts. So your informer is wrong, sir, every
way, and no lawyer, sir, for I have an attorney at my back--and your
information's all wrong, and you had no need to interfere."

Erasmus felt and acknowledged the imprudence of his interference, but hoped
it might be forgiven in favour of the motive--and he looked so honestly
glad to hear that his information was all wrong, that old Panton at the
moment believed in his integrity, and said, stretching out his hand towards
him, "Well, well, no harm done--then it's all as it should be, and we may
ring for dinner--But," recurring again to his favourite idea, "you'll get
the wig, doctor?"

"Excuse me," said Erasmus, laughing, "your confidence in me cannot depend
upon a wig."

"It can, sir, and it does," cried Panton, turning again with all his anger
revived. "Excuse you! No, sir, I won't; for the wig's my test, and I told
Mrs. Panton so last night--the wig's my test of your uprightness in this
matter, sir; and I fairly tell you, that if you refuse this, all the words
you can string don't signify a button with me."

"And by what right, sir, do you speak to me in this manner?" cried Erasmus,
proudly, for he lost all sense of the ludicrous in indignation at the
insolent doubt of his integrity, which, after all the assurances he had
given, these last words from Mr. Panton implied: "By what right, sir, do
you speak to me in this manner?--And what reason can you have to expect
that I should submit to any tests to convince you of the truth of my
assertions?"

"Right! Reason!" cried Panton. "Why, doctor, don't you know that I'm your
patron?"

"My patron!" repeated Erasmus, in a tone which would have expressed much to
the mind of any man of sense or feeling, but which conveyed no idea to the
gross apprehension of old Panton except that Dr. Percy was ignorant of the
fact.

"Your patron--yes, doctor--why, don't you know, that ever since you set
me upon my legs I have been going up and down the city puffing--that
is, I mean, recommending you to all my friends? and you see you're of
consequence--getting into fine practice for so young a man. And it stands
to reason that when one takes a young man by the hand, one has a right to
expect one's advice should be followed; and as to the wig, I don't make it
a test--you've an objection to a test--but, as I've mentioned it to Mrs.
Panton, I must make it a point, and you know I am not a man to go back. And
you'll consider that if you disoblige me, you can't expect that I should
continue my friendship, and protection, and patronage, and all that."

"Be assured, sir, I expect nothing from you," said Erasmus, "and desire
nothing: I have the happiness and honour to belong to a profession, in
which, if a man merits confidence, he will succeed, without requiring any
man's patronage."--Much less the patronage of such a one as you! Erasmus
would have said, but that he commanded his indignation, or, perhaps, it was
extinguished by contempt.

A servant now came to announce that the company was arrived, and dinner was
waiting. In very bad humour, Mr. Panton, nevertheless, ate an excellent
dinner, growling over every thing as he devoured it. Constance seemed much
grieved by her father's unseasonable fit of rudeness and obstinacy; with
sweetness of temper and filial duty she bore with his humour, and concealed
it as far as she could from observation. Mrs. Panton was displeased with
this, and once went so far as to whisper to Erasmus that her step-daughter
wanted spirit sadly, but that he ought never to mind that, but to take a
broad hint, and keep his ground. Erasmus, who, with great simplicity and
an upright character, had quick observation and tact, perceived pretty
nearly what was going on in the family. He saw that the step-mother, under
an air of frank and coarse good-nature, was cunning and interested; that
she wished to encourage the daughter to open war with the father, knowing
that nothing could incense him so much as Constance's thinking of a poor
physician instead of accepting of an earl's son; Mrs. Panton wished then to
fan to a flame the spark which she was confident existed in his daughter's
heart. Erasmus, who was not apt to fancy that ladies liked him, endeavoured
to relieve Constance from the agonizing apprehension which he saw she felt
of his being misled by her mother's hints: he appeared sometimes not to
hear, and at other times not to understand, what Mrs. Panton whispered; and
at last talked so loud across the table to Mr. Henry, about letters from
Godfrey, and the officers of all the regiments in or out of England, that
no other subject could be introduced, and no other voice could be heard. As
soon as he decently could, after dinner, Dr. Percy took his leave, heartily
glad to escape from his awkward situation, and from the patronage of Mr.
Panton. Erasmus was mistaken, however, in supposing that Mr. Panton could
do him no harm. It is true that he could not deny that Dr. Percy had
restored him to health, and the opinion, which had spread in the city, of
Dr. Percy's skill, was not, and could not, be diminished by Mr. Panton's
railing against him; but when he hinted that the young physician had
practised upon his daughter's heart, all the rich citizens who had
daughters to watch began to consider him as a dangerous person, and
resolved never to call him in, except in some desperate case. Mrs. Panton's
gossiping confidences did more harm than her husband's loud complaints; and
the very eagerness which poor Constance showed to vindicate Dr. Percy,
and to declare the truth, served only to confirm the sagaciously-nodding
mothers and overwise fathers in their own opinions. Mr. Henry said and did
what he could for Erasmus; but what could be done by a young man shut up
all day in a counting-house? or who would listen to any thing that was said
by a youth without station or name? Mr. Gresham unluckily was at this time
at his country-seat. Poor Erasmus found his practice in the city decline
as rapidly as it had risen, and he began a little to doubt the truth of
that noble sentiment which he had so proudly expressed. He was comforted,
however, by letters from his father, who strongly approved his conduct, and
who maintained that truth would at last prevail, and that the prejudice
which had been raised against him would, in time, be turned to his
advantage.

It happened that, while old Panton, in his present ludicrous fit of
obstinacy, was caballing against our young physician with all his might
in the city, the remote consequences of his absurdities were operating in
Dr. Percy's favour at the west end of the town. Our readers may recollect
having heard of a footman, whom Mr. Panton turned away for laughing at his
perversity. Erasmus had at the time pleaded in the poor fellow's favour,
and had, afterwards, when the servant was out of place, in distress, and
ill, humanely attended him, and cured a child of his, who had inflamed
eyes. This man was now in the service of a rich and very fine lady, who
lived in Grosvenor-square--Lady Spilsbury. Her ladyship had several sickly
children--children rendered sickly by their mother's overweening and
injudicious care. Alarmed successively by every fashionable medical terror
of the day, she dosed her children with every specific which was publicly
advertised or privately recommended. No creatures of their age had
taken such quantities of Ching's lozenges, Godbold's elixir, or Dixon's
antibilious pills. The consequence was, that the dangers, which had at
first been imaginary, became real: these little victims of domestic
medicine never had a day's health: they looked, and were, more dead than
alive. Still the mother, in the midst of hourly alarms, was in admiration
of her own medical skill, which she said had actually preserved, in spite
of nature, children of such sickly constitutions. In consequence of this
conviction, she redoubled her vigilance, and the most trivial accident was
magnified into a symptom of the greatest importance.

It happened on the day when the eldest Miss Spilsbury had miraculously
attained her seventh year, a slight inflammation was discerned in her
right eye, which was attributed by her mother to her having neglected the
preceding day to bathe it in elder-flower water; by her governess, to her
having sat up the preceding night to supper; by her maid, to her having
been found peeping through a windy key-hole; and by the young lady herself,
to her having been kept poring for two hours over her French lesson.

Whatever might have been the original cause, the inflammation evidently
increased, either in consequence or in spite of the innumerable remedies
applied internally and externally--the eye grew redder and redder, and as
red as blood, the nose inflamed, and the mother, in great alarm for the
beauty as well as health of her child, sent for Sir Amyas Courtney. He had
already won Lady Spilsbury's heart by recommending to her the _honan tcha_,
or Tartar tea, which enables the Tartars to digest raw flesh, and tinges
water of a red colour.

Sir Amyas pronounced that the young lady had hereditary nerves, besought
Lady Spilsbury to compose herself, assured her the inflammation was
purely symptomatic, and as soon as he could subdue the continual nervous
inclination to shrivel up the nose, which he trusted he could in time
master, all would go well. But Sir Amyas attended every day for a month,
yet never got the mastery of this nervous inclination. Lady Spilsbury
then was persuaded _it could not be nerves, it must be scrofula_; and she
called in Dr. Frumpton, _the man for scrofula_. He of course confirmed her
ladyship in her opinion; for a week d----d nerves and Sir Amyas; threw in
desperate doses of calomel for another month, reduced the poor child to
what the maid called an _attomy_, and still the inflammation increased.
Lady Spilsbury desired a consultation of physicians, but Dr. Frumpton would
not consult with Sir Amyas, nor would Sir Amyas consult with Dr. Frumpton.
Lady Spilsbury began to dread that the sight of the eye would be injured,
and this idea terrified the mother almost out of her senses. In the
suspension of authority which terror produces in a family, the lady's-maid
usually usurps considerable power.

Now her ladyship's maid had been offended by Dr. Frumpton's calling her
_my good girl_, and by Sir Amyas Courtney's having objected to a green silk
bandage which she had recommended; so that she could not _abide_ either of
the gentlemen, and she was confident the young lady would never get well
while they had the management of affairs: she had heard--but she did not
mention from whom, she was too diplomatic to give up her authority--she had
heard of a young physician, a Dr. Percy, who had performed wonderful great
cures in the city, and had in particular cured a young _lady_ who had an
inflamed eye, just for all the world like Miss Spilsbury's. In this last
assertion, there was, perhaps, some little exaggeration; but it produced
a salutary effect upon Lady Spilsbury's imagination: the footman was
immediately despatched for Dr. Percy, and ordered to make all possible
haste. Thus by one of those petty underplots of life, which, often unknown
to us, are continually going on, our young physician was brought into a
situation where he had an opportunity of showing his abilities. These
favourable accidents happen to many men who are not able to make use of
them, and thus the general complaint is preferred of want of good fortune,
or of opportunity for talents to distinguish themselves.

Upon Dr. Percy's arrival at Lady Spilsbury's, he immediately perceived that
parties ran high, and that the partisans were all eager to know whether he
would pronounce the young lady's case to be nervous or scrofulous. He was
assailed by a multitude of female voices, and requested particularly to
attend to innumerable contradictory symptoms, before he was permitted
even to see his patient. He attended carefully to whatever facts he could
obtain, pure from opinion and misrepresentation. The young lady was in a
darkened room--he begged to have a little more light admitted, though she
was in such pain that she could scarcely endure it. Our young physician had
the great advantage of possessing the use of his senses and understanding,
unbiassed by medical theories, or by the authority of great names: he was
not always trying to force symptoms to agree with previous descriptions,
but he was actually able to see, hear, and judge of them as they really
appeared. There was a small protuberance on the left side of the nose,
which, on his pressing it, gave great pain to the child.

"Dear me! miss, you know," said the maid, "it is not in your nose you feel
the great pain--you know you told Sir Amyas Courtney t'other day--that is,
Sir Amyas Courtney told you--"

Dr. Percy insisted that the child should be permitted to speak for
herself; and, relieved from the apprehension of not saying the thing that
she was expected to say, she described her present and past feelings.
She said, "that the pain seemed lately to have _changed from where it
was before_--that it had changed ever since Dr. Frumpton's opening his
snuff-box near her had made her sneeze." This sneeze was thought by all but
Dr. Percy to be a circumstance too trivial to be worth mentioning; but on
this hint he determined to repeat the experiment. He had often thought that
many of the pains which are supposed to be symptoms of certain diseases,
many disorders which baffle the skill of medicine, originate in accidents,
by which extraneous substances are taken or forced into different parts
of the body. He ordered some cephalic snuff to be administered to the
patient. All present looked with contempt at the physician who proposed
such a simple remedy. But soon after the child had sneezed violently and
repeatedly, Dr. Percy saw a little bit of green silk appear, which was
drawn from the nostril, to the patient's great and immediate relief. Her
brothers and sisters then recollected having seen her, two months before,
stuffing up her nose a bit of green riband, which she said she liked
because it smelt of some perfume. The cause of the inflammation removed, it
soon subsided; the eye and nose recovered their natural size and colour,
and every body said, "Who would have thought it?" all but Dr. Frumpton and
Sir Amyas Courtney, who, in the face of demonstration, maintained each his
own opinion; declaring that the green riband had nothing to do with the
business. The sudden recovery of the child, Sir Amyas said, proved to him,
in the most satisfactory manner, that the disease was, as he at first
pronounced--nervous. Dr. Frumpton swore that scrofula would soon break
out again in another shape; and, denouncing vengeance against generations
yet unborn, he left Lady Spilsbury's children to take the consequences of
trusting to a youngster, whose impertinent interference he could never
forget or forgive. In spite of all that the two angry and unsuccessful
physicians could say, the recovery of the child's eye redounded much to Dr.
Percy's honour, and introduced him to the notice of several men of science
and celebrity, who frequented Lady Spilsbury's excellent dinners. Even the
intemperance of Dr. Frumpton's anger was of service; for in consequence of
his furious assertions, inquiry was made into the circumstances, and the
friends of Erasmus had then an opportunity of producing in his defence the
Irish porter. His cause could not be in better hands.

With that warmth and eloquence of gratitude characteristic of his country,
the poor fellow told his story so as to touch every heart. Among others
it particularly affected an officer just returned from our armies on
the continent: and by him it was the next day repeated at the table of
a celebrated general, when the conversation turned upon the conduct of
certain army surgeons. Lord Oldborough happened to be one of the company;
the name of Percy struck his ear; the moment Erasmus was thus brought to
his recollection, he attended particularly to what the officer was saying;
and, after hearing two circumstances, which were so marked with humanity
and good sense, his lordship determined to give what assistance he could to
the rising credit of the son of his old friend, by calling him in for Lady
Oldborough, who was in a declining state of health. But Sir Amyas Courtney,
who had long attended her ladyship, endeavoured, with all the address
of hatred, to prejudice her against his young rival, and to prevent her
complying with her lord's request. Depending on her habitual belief that
he was essential to her existence, Sir Amyas went so far as to declare
that if Dr. Percy should be sent for, he must discontinue his visits. Lord
Oldborough, however, whom the appearance of opposition to his will always
confirmed in his purpose, cut short the matter by a few peremptory words.

Sir Amyas, the soft silken Sir Amyas, could not for an instant stand before
the terror of Lord Oldborough's eye: the moment he was told that he was at
perfect liberty to discontinue his visits, his regard--his attachment--his
devotion for Lady Oldborough, prevented the possibility of abandoning her
ladyship; he was willing to sacrifice his private feelings, perhaps his
private prejudices, his judgment, in short any thing, every thing, sooner
than disoblige Lord Oldborough, or any of his family. Lord Oldborough,
satisfied with the submission, scarcely stayed to hear the end of the
speech, but rang the bell, ordered that Dr. Percy should be sent for, and
went to attend a cabinet council.

Lady Oldborough received him as it might be supposed that a very sickly,
very much prejudiced, very proud lady of quality would receive a physician
without a name, who was forced upon her in opposition to her long habits
of reliance on her courtly favourite. Her present disease, as Dr. Percy
believed, was water upon her chest, and there was some chance of saving
her, by the remedies which have been found successful in a first attack of
that complaint; but Sir Amyas had pronounced that her ladyship's disorder
was merely nervous spasms, consequent upon a bilious attack, and he could
not, or would not, recede from his opinion: his prescriptions, to which
her ladyship devoutly adhered to the last, were all directed against bile
and nerves. She would not hear of water on the chest, or take any of the
remedies proposed by Dr. Percy. Lady Oldborough died ten days after he was
called in. Those who knew nothing of the matter, that is, above nine-tenths
of all who talked about it, affirmed that poor Lady Oldborough's death was
occasioned by her following the rash prescriptions of a young physician,
who had been forced upon her by Lord Oldborough; and who, unacquainted with
her ladyship's constitution, had mistaken the nature of her complaint.
All her ladyship's female relations joined in this clamour, for they were
most of them friends or partizans of Sir Amyas Courtney. The rank and
conspicuous situation of Lord Oldborough interested vast numbers in the
discussion, which was carried on in every fashionable circle the day after
her ladyship's decease.

Dr. Percy took a decided step in this emergency. He went to the minister,
to whom no one, friend or enemy, had ventured to give the slightest hint of
the reports in circulation. Dr. Percy plainly stated the facts, represented
that his character and the fate of his whole life were at stake, and
besought his lordship to have the truth examined into by eminent and
impartial physicians. Erasmus was aware of all he hazarded in making this
request--aware that he must hurt Lord Oldborough's feelings--that he must
irritate him by bringing to his view at once, and in this critical moment,
a number of family cabals, of which he was ignorant--aware that Lord
Oldborough was oppressed with business, public and private; and that, above
all things, he was impatient of any intrusion upon his hours of privacy.
But all these subordinate considerations vanished before Lord Oldborough's
magnanimity. Without saying one word, he sat down and wrote an order,
that proper means should be taken to ascertain the disease of which Lady
Oldborough died.

The report made, in consequence of this order, by the surgeons, confirmed
Dr. Percy's opinion that her ladyship's disease was water on the chest--and
Lord Oldborough took effectual means to give the truth publicity.

"You need not thank me, Dr. Percy--you have a right to expect justice, more
you will never want. My assistance might, it seems, have been injurious,
but can never be necessary to your reputation."

These few words--much from Lord Oldborough--and which he took care to
say when they could be heard by numbers, were quickly circulated. The
physicians and surgeons who had given in their report were zealous in
maintaining the truth; medical and political parties were interested in
the affair; the name of Dr. Percy was joined with the first names in the
medical world, and repeated by the first people in the great world, so that
with surprising celerity he became known and fashionable. And thus the very
circumstance that threatened his ruin was, by his civil courage and decided
judgment, converted into the means of his rising into eminence.

Late one night, after a busy and fatiguing day, just as Erasmus had got
into bed, and was settling himself comfortably to sleep, he heard a loud
knock at the door.

"Mr. Henry, sir, from Mr. Panton's in the city, wishes to speak with you."

"Show him in.--So, old Panton, I suppose--some indigestion has brought him
to reason?"

"Oh! no such thing," interrupted Mr. Henry--"I would not have disturbed you
at this time of night for any such trifle; but our excellent friend, Mr.
Gresham--"

"What of him?" cried Erasmus, starting up in bed.

"Is ill,--but whether dangerously or not, I cannot tell you. An express
from his house in the country has just arrived; I heard the letter read,
but could not get it to bring to you. It was written to old Panton from Mr.
Gresham's housekeeper, without her master's knowledge, as he has no opinion
of physicians, she said, except of a young Dr. Percy, and did not like to
send for him for such a trifle as a sore throat, lest it should hurt his
practice to leave town at this season."

Erasmus stayed to hear no more, but ordered horses instantly, set out, and
travelled with all possible expedition. He had reason to rejoice that he
had not made a moment's delay. He found Mr. Gresham actually suffocating
from a quinsy. A surgeon had been sent for from the next town, but was not
at home. Erasmus, the instant he saw Mr. Gresham, perceiving the danger,
without saying one syllable, sprang to the bed, lanced the throat, and
saved the life of his valuable friend. The surgeon, who came the next
day, said that Dr. Percy ought to have waited for his arrival, and
that a physician might be severely blamed for performing a surgical
operation--that it was a very indelicate thing.

But Mr. Gresham, who had fallen into a comfortable sleep, did not hear him;
nor did Dr. Percy, who was writing the following letter to his father:

"... You will sympathize with me, my dear father, and all my friends at
home will sympathize in the joy I feel at seeing this excellent man, this
kind friend, recovering under my care. These are some of the happy moments
which, in my profession, repay us for years of toil, disappointment, and
sufferings--yes, sufferings--for we must suffer with those that suffer:
we must daily and hourly behold every form of pain, acute or lingering;
numbers, every year of our lives, we must see perish, the victims of
incurable disease. We are doomed to hear the groans of the dying, and the
lamentations, sometimes the reproaches, of surviving friends; often and
often must the candid and humane physician deplore the insufficiency of
his art. But there are successful, gloriously successful moments, which
reward us for all the painful duties, all the unavailing regrets of our
profession.

"This day I shall recall to my mind whenever my spirits sink, or whenever
my fortitude begins to fail. I wish you could see the gratitude and joy in
the looks of all Mr. Gresham's servants. His death would have been a public
loss, for the beneficent use he makes of his princely fortune has rendered
numbers dependent on him for the comforts of life. He lives here in a
palace, and every thing he has done, whether in building or planting, in
encouraging the useful or the fine arts, has been done with a judicious
and magnificent spirit. Surely this man ought to be happy in his own
reflections, and yet he does not seem to me as happy as he deserves to be.
I shall stay here till I see him out of all danger of relapse.--He has just
awakened--Adieu for the present."

In continuation of this letter the following was written the next day:

"All danger is over--my friend is convalescent, and I shall return to town
to-morrow. But would you think, my dear father, that the real cause of Mr.
Gresham's being unhappy is patronage? By accident I made use of that word
in speaking of old Panton's quarrel with me, and he cursed the word the
moment I pronounced it: 'Yes,' he exclaimed, 'it is twice accursed--once in
the giving, and once in the receiving.' Then he began, in a most feeling
manner, to describe the evils attendant upon being a patron. He has done
his utmost to relieve and encourage genius in distress; but among all
the poets, painters, artists, and men of letters, whom in various ways
he has obliged, he has scarcely been able to satisfy the vanity or the
expectations of any. Some have passed from excessive adulation to gross
abuse of him--many more torment him continually with their complaints and
invectives against each other; and, instead of having done good by his
generosity, he finds that, in a variety of instances, of which he detailed
the circumstances, he has done much mischief, and, as he says, infinite
injury to his own peace of mind--for he has burdened himself with the care
of a number of people, who cannot be made happy. He has to deal with men
but partially cultivated; with _talents_, unaccompanied by reason, justice,
or liberality of sentiment. With great feeling himself, he suffers acutely
from all their jealousies and quarrels, and from the near and perpetual
view of the _littleness_ by which artists too often degrade themselves.
Another man in Mr. Gresham's situation would become a misanthropist, and
would comfort himself by railing against the ingratitude of mankind; but
this would not comfort Mr. Gresham. He loves his fellow-creatures, and
sees their faults in sorrow rather than in anger. I have known him, and
intimately, for a considerable time, and yet I never heard him speak on
this subject but once before, when the painter, whom I used to call the
irritable genius, had caricatured him in return for all his kindness.

"Though it is not easy to change the habits or to alter the views and
objects of a man, like Mr. Gresham, past the meridian of life, yet I
cannot help flattering myself that this might be effected. If he would,
by one bold effort, shake off these dependents, the evening of his days
might yet be serene and happy. He wants friends, not _protges_. I have
advised him, as soon as his strength will permit, to take a little tour,
which will bring him into your part of the country. He wishes much to
become acquainted with all our family, and I have given him a note of
introduction. You, my dear father, can say to him more than I could with
propriety.

"Mr. Gresham knows how to accept as well as to give. He allows me to have
the pleasure of proving to him, that where my friends are concerned, I am
above pecuniary considerations. My love to my dear mother, Rosamond, and
Caroline.

"Your affectionate son,

"E. PERCY."

Though Mr. Gresham would not hurt the feelings of his young friend and
physician, by pressing upon him at the moment any remuneration, or by
entering into any calculation of the loss he would sustain by his absence
from London at this critical season, he took his own methods of justly
recompensing Dr. Percy. Erasmus found at his door, some time after his
return to town, a plain but excellent chariot and horses, with a note from
Mr. Gresham, written in such terms as precluded the possibility of refusing
the offer.

The celebrated London physician, who said that he was not paid for three
weeks' attendance in the country, by a draft of two thousand pounds; and
who, when the pen was put into his own hands, wrote four in the place
of two, would smile in scorn at the generosity of Mr. Gresham and the
disinterestedness of Dr. Percy.




CHAPTER XXI.


LETTER FROM CAROLINE TO ERASMUS.

"MY DEAR ERASMUS,

"Your friend and patient, Mr. Gresham, was so eager to take your advice,
and so quick in his movements, that your letter, announcing his intended
visit, reached us but a few days before his arrival at the Hills. And--mark
how great and little events, which seem to have no possible link of
connexion, depend upon one another--Alfred or Mr. Gresham must have sat up
all night, or slept on the floor, had not Alfred, that morning, received
a letter from Mrs. Hungerford, summoning him to town to draw her son's
marriage settlements. It is thought that Colonel Hungerford, whose leave
of absence from his regiment has, by special favour, been repeatedly
protracted, will be very soon sent abroad. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke has,
therefore, consented to his urgent desire for their immediate union; and
Alfred will, I am sure, give them as little reason as possible to complain
of the law's delay. Lady Elizabeth, who has all that decision of mind and
true courage which you know is so completely compatible with the most
perfect gentleness of disposition and softness, even timidity of manners,
resolves to leave all her relations and friends, and to go abroad. She says
she knew what sacrifices she must make in marrying a soldier, and she is
prepared to make them without hesitation or repining.

"And now to return to your friend, Mr. Gresham. The more we see of him the
more we like him. Perhaps he bribed our judgment a little at first by the
kind, affectionate manner in which he spoke of you; but, independently of
this prepossession, we should, I hope, soon have discovered his merit. He
is a good English merchant. Not a '_M. Friport, qui sait donner, mais qui
ne sait pas vivre_,' but a well-bred, well-informed gentleman, upright,
liberal, and benevolent, without singularity or oddities of any sort. His
quiet, plain manners, free from ostentation, express so well the kind
feelings of his mind, that I prefer them infinitely to what are called
polished manners. Last night Rosamond and I were amusing ourselves by
contrasting him with our recollection of the polished M. de Tourville--but
as you were not at home at the memorable time of the shipwreck, and of M.
de Tourville's visit, you cannot feel the force of our parallel between
these two beings, the most dissimilar I have ever seen--an English merchant
and a diplomatic Frenchman. You will ask, what put it into our heads
to make the comparison? A slight circumstance which happened yesterday
evening. Rosamond was showing Mr. Gresham some of my drawings, and among
them the copy of that beautiful miniature in M. de Tourville's snuff-box.
My father told him the history of Euphrosyne, of her German prince, and
Count Albert. Mr. Gresham's way of listening struck us, by its contrast
to the manner of M. de Tourville--and this led us on to draw a parallel
between their characters. Mr. Gresham, instead of shrugging his shoulders,
and smiling disdainfully, like the Frenchman, at the Quixotism of the young
nobleman, who lost his favour at court by opposing the passion of his
prince, was touched with Count Albert's disinterested character; and quite
forgetting, as Rosamond observed, to compliment me upon my picture of
Euphrosyne, he laid down the miniature with a negligence of which M. de
Tourville never would have been guilty, and went on eagerly to tell some
excellent traits of the count. For instance, when he was a very young man
in the Prussian or Austrian service, I forget which, in the heat of an
engagement he had his sabre lifted over the head of one of the enemy's
officers, when, looking down, he saw that the officer's right arm was
broken. The count immediately stopped, took hold of the disabled officer's
bridle, and led him off to a place of safety. This and many other anecdotes
Mr. Gresham heard, when he spent some time on the continent a few years
ago, whilst he was transacting some commercial business. He had full
opportunities of learning the opinions of different parties; and he says,
that it was the prayer of all the good and wise in Germany, whenever the
hereditary prince should succeed to the throne, that Count Albert Altenberg
might be his minister.

"By-the-bye, Mr. Gresham, though he is rather an elderly man, and looks
remarkably cool and composed, shows all the warmth of youth whenever any of
his feelings are touched.

"I wish you could see how much my father is pleased with your friend. He
has frequently repeated that Mr. Gresham, long as he has been trained in
the habits of mercantile life, is quite free from the spirit of monopoly
in small or great affairs. My father rejoices that his son has made such a
friend. Rosamond charged me to leave her room to write to you at the end
of my letter; but she is listening so intently to something Mr. Gresham is
telling her, that I do not believe she will write one line. I hear a few
words, which so much excite my curiosity, that I must go and listen too.
Adieu.

"Affectionately yours,

"CAROLINE PERCY."

Another letter from Caroline to Erasmus, dated some weeks after the
preceding.

"Tuesday, 14th.

"Yes, my dear Erasmus, your friend, Mr. Gresham, is still with us; and he
declares that he has not, for many years, been so happy as since he came
here. He is now sufficiently intimate in this family to speak of himself,
and of his own feelings and plans. You, who know what a horror he has of
egotism, will consider this as a strong proof of his liking us, and of his
confidence in our regard. He has related many of the instances, which, I
suppose, he told you, of the ingratitude and disappointments he has met
with from persons whom he attempted to serve. He has kept us all, for
hours, Rosamond especially, in a state of alternate pity and indignation.
For all that has happened, he blames himself more than he blames any one
else; and with a mildness and candour which make us at once admire and love
him, he adverts to the causes of his own disappointment.

"My father has spoken to him as freely as you could desire. He has urged,
that as far as the public good is concerned, free competition is more
advantageous to the arts and to artists than any private patronage can be.

"If the productions have real merit, they will make their own way; if they
have not merit, they ought not to make their way. And the same argument he
has applied to literary merit, and to the merit, generally speaking, of
persons as well as of things. He has also plainly told Mr. Gresham that he
considers the trade of a patron as one of the most thankless, as it is the
least useful, of all trades.

"All this has made such an impression upon your candid friend, that he has
declared it to be his determination to have no more protges, and to let
the competition of talents work fairly without the interference, or, as
he expressed it, any of the _bounties_ and _drawbacks_ of patronage. 'But
then,' he added, with a sigh, 'I am a solitary being: am I to pass the
remainder of my days without objects of interest or affection? While
Constance Panton was a child, she was an object to me; but now she must
live with her parents, or she will marry: at all events, she is rich--and
is my wealth to be only for my selfish gratification? How happy you are,
Mr. Percy, who have such an amiable wife, such a large family, and so many
charming domestic objects of affection!'

"Mr. Gresham then walked away with my father to the end of the room, and
continued his conversation in a low voice, to which I did not think I ought
to listen, so I came up stairs to write to you. I think you told me that
Mr. Gresham had suffered some disappointment early in life, which prevented
his marrying; but if I am not mistaken, his mind now turns again to the
hopes of domestic happiness. If I am not mistaken, Rosamond has made an
impression on his heart. I have been as conveniently and meritoriously
deaf, blind, and stupid, for some time past as possible; but though I shut
my eyes, and stop my ears, yet my imagination will act, and I can only say
to myself, as we used to do when we were children--I will not think of it
till it comes, that I may have the pleasure of the surprise....

"Affectionately yours,

"CAROLINE PERCY."

Caroline was right--Rosamond had made a great impression upon Mr. Gresham's
heart. His recollection of the difference between his age and Rosamond's,
and his consciousness of the want of the gaiety and attractions of youth,
rendered him extremely diffident, and for some time suppressed his passion,
at least delayed the declaration of his attachment. But Rosamond seemed
evidently to like his company and conversation, and she showed that degree
of esteem and interest for him which, he flattered himself, might be
improved into a more tender affection. He ventured to make his proposal--he
applied first to Mrs. Percy, and entreated that she would make known his
sentiments to her daughter.

When Mrs. Percy spoke to Rosamond, she was surprised at the very decided
refusal which Rosamond immediately gave. Both Mrs. Percy and Caroline were
inclined to think that Rosamond had not only a high opinion of Mr. Gresham,
but that she had felt a preference for him which she had never before shown
for any other person; and they thought that, perhaps, some refinement of
delicacy about accepting his large fortune, or some fear that his want of
high birth, and what are called good connexions, would be objected to by
her father and mother, might be the cause of this refusal. Mrs. Percy felt
extremely anxious to explain her own sentiments, and fully to understand
Rosamond's feelings. In this anxiety Caroline joined most earnestly; all
the kindness, sympathy, and ardent affection, which Rosamond had ever shown
for her, when the interests of her heart were in question, were strong
in Caroline's recollection, and these were now fully returned. Caroline
thought Mr. Gresham was too old for her sister; but she considered that
this objection, and all others, should yield to Rosamond's own opinion and
taste. She agreed with her mother in imagining that Rosamond was not quite
indifferent to his merit and to his attachment.

Mrs. Percy began by assuring Rosamond that she should be left entirely at
liberty to decide according to her own judgment and feelings. "You have
seen, my dear, how your father and I have acted towards your sister; and
you may be sure that we shall show you equal justice. Though parents are
accused of always rating 'a good estate above a faithful lover,' yet you
will recollect that Mr. Barclay's good estate did not induce us to press
his suit with Caroline. Mr. Gresham has a large fortune; and, to speak in
Lady Jane Granville's style, it must be acknowledged, my dear Rosamond,
that this would be a most advantageous match; but for this very reason we
are particularly desirous that you should determine for yourself: at the
same time, let me tell you, that I am a little surprised by the promptness
of your decision. Let me be sure that this negative is serious--let me
be sure that I rightly understand you, my love: now, when only your own
Caroline is present, tell me what are your objections to Mr. Gresham?"

Thanks for her mother's kindness; thanks repeated, with tears in her eyes,
were, for a considerable time, all the answer that could be obtained from
Rosamond. At length she said, "Without having any particular objection to a
person, surely, if I cannot love him, that is sufficient reason for my not
wishing to marry him."

Rosamond spoke these words in so feeble a tone, and with so much
hesitation, colouring at the same time so much, that her mother and sister
were still uncertain how they were to understand her _if_--and Mrs. Percy
replied, "Undoubtedly, my dear, _if_ you cannot love him; but that is the
question. Is it quite certain that you cannot?"

"Oh! quite certain--I believe."

"This certainty seems to have come very suddenly," said her mother,
smiling.

"What can you mean, mother?"

"I mean that you did not show any decided dislike to him, till within these
few hours, my dear."

"Dislike! I don't feel--I hope I don't show any dislike--lam sure I should
be very ungrateful. On the contrary, it would be impossible for any body,
who is good for any thing, to _dislike_ Mr. Gresham."

"Then you can neither like him nor dislike him?--You are in a state of
absolute indifference."

"That is, except gratitude--gratitude for all his kindness to Erasmus, and
for his partiality to me--gratitude I certainly feel."

"And esteem?"

"Yes; to be sure, esteem."

"And I think," continued her mother, "that before he committed this crime
of proposing for you, Rosamond, you used to show some of the indignation of
a good friend against those ungrateful people who used him so ill.

"Indignation! Yes," interrupted Rosamond, "who could avoid feeling
indignation?"

"And pity?--I think I have heard you express pity for poor Mr. Gresham."

"Well, ma'am, because he really was very much to be pitied--don't you think
so?"

"I do--and pity--" said Mrs. Percy, smiling.

"No, indeed, mother, you need not smile--nor you, Caroline; for the sort
of pity which I feel is not--it was merely pity by itself, plain pity:
why should people imagine and insist upon it, that more is felt than
expressed?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Percy, "I do not insist upon your feeling more than
you really do; but let us see--you are in a state of absolute indifference,
and yet you feel esteem, indignation, pity--how is this, Rosamond? How can
this be?"

"Very easily, ma'am, because by absolute indifference, I mean--Oh! you know
very well what I mean--absolute indifference as to--"

"Love, perhaps, is the word which you cannot pronounce this morning."

"Now, mother! Now, Caroline! You fancy that I love him. But, supposing
there were any _if_ in the case on my side, tell me only _why_ I should
refuse him?"

"Nay, my dear, that is what we wait to hear from you," said Mrs. Percy.

"Then I will tell you why," said Rosamond: "in the first place, Mr. Gresham
has a large fortune, and I have none. And I have the greatest horror of the
idea of marrying for money, or of the possibility of its being suspected
that I might do so."

"I thought that was the fear!" cried Caroline: "but, my dear Rosamond, with
your generous mind, you know it is quite impossible that you should marry
from interested motives."

"Absolutely impossible," said her mother. "And when you are sure of your
own mind, it would be weakness, my dear, to dread the suspicions of others,
even if such were likely to be formed."

"Oh! do not, my dearest Rosamond," said Caroline, taking her sister's
hand, pressing it between hers, and speaking in the most urgent, almost
supplicating tone, "do not, generous as you are, sacrifice your happiness
to mistaken delicacy!"

"But," said Rosamond, after a moment's silence, "but you attribute more
than I deserve to my delicacy and generosity: I ought not to let you think
me so much better than I really am. I had some other motives: you will
think them very foolish--very ridiculous--perhaps wrong; but you are so
kind and indulgent to me, mother, that I will tell you all my follies. I do
not like to marry a man who is not a hero--you are very good not to laugh,
Caroline."

"Indeed, I am too seriously interested at present to laugh," said Caroline.

"And you must be sensible," continued Rosamond, "that I could not, by any
effort of imagination, or by any illusion of love, convert a man of Mr.
Gresham's time of life and appearance, with his wig, and sober kind of
understanding, into a hero."

"As to the wig," replied Mrs. Percy, "you will recollect that both Sir
Charles Grandison and Lovelace wore wigs; but, my dear, granting that a man
cannot, in these days, be a hero in a wig, and granting that a hero cannot
or should not have a sober understanding, will you give me leave to ask,
whether you have positively determined that none but heroes and heroines
should live, or love, or marry, or be happy in this mortal world?"

"Heaven forbid!" said Rosamond, "particularly as I am not a heroine."

"And as only a few hundred millions of people in the world are in the same
condition," added Mrs. Percy.

"And those perhaps, not the least happy of human beings," said Caroline.
"Be that as it may, I think it cannot be denied that Mr. Gresham has, in a
high degree, one of the qualities which ought to distinguish a hero."

"What?" said Rosamond, eagerly.

"Generosity," replied Caroline; "and his large fortune puts it in his power
to show that quality upon a scale more extended than is usually allowed
even to the heroes of romance."

"True--very true," said Rosamond, smiling: "generosity might make a hero of
him if he were not a merchant--a merchant!--a Percy ought not to marry a
merchant."

"Perhaps, my dear," said Mrs. Percy, "you don't know that half, at least,
of all the nobility in England have married into the families of merchants;
therefore, in the opinion of half the nobility of England, there can be
nothing discreditable or derogatory in such an alliance."

"I know, ma'am, such things are; but then you will allow they are usually
done for money, and that makes the matter worse. If the sons of noble
families marry the daughters of mercantile houses, it is merely to repair
the family fortune. But a nobleman has great privileges. If he marry
beneath himself, his low wife is immediately raised by her wedding-ring to
an equality with the high and mighty husband--her name is forgotten in her
title--her vulgar relations are left in convenient obscurity: the husband
never thinks of taking notice of them; and the wife, of course, may let
it alone if she pleases. But a woman, in our rank of life, must bear her
husband's name, and must also bear all his relations, be they ever so
vulgar. Now, Caroline, honestly--how should you like this?"

"Honestly, not at all," said Caroline; "but as we cannot have every thing
we like, or avoid every thing we dislike, in life, we must balance the
good against the evil, when we are to make our choice: and if I found
certain amiable, estimable qualities in a character, I think that I might
esteem, love, and marry him, even though he had a vulgar name and vulgar
connexions. I fairly acknowledge, however, that it must be something
superior in the man's character which could balance the objection to
vulgarity in my mind."

"Very well, my dear," said Rosamond, "do you be a martyr to vulgarity and
philosophy, if you like it--but excuse me, if you please. Since you, who
have so much strength of mind, fairly acknowledge that this objection is
barely to be overcome by your utmost efforts, do me the favour, do me the
justice, not to expect from me a degree of civil courage quite above my
powers."

Caroline, still believing that Rosamond was only bringing forward all the
objections that might be raised against her wishes, replied, "Fortunately,
my dear Rosamond, you are not called upon for any such effort of
philosophy, for Mr. Gresham is not vulgar, nor is even his name vulgar, and
he cannot have any vulgar relations, because he has no relations of any
description--I heard him say, the other day, that he was a solitary being."

"That is a comfort," said Rosamond, laughing; "that is a great thing in his
favour; but if he has not relations, he has connexions. What do you think
of those horrible Pantons? This instant I think I see old Panton cooling
himself--wig pushed back--waistcoat unbuttoned--and protuberant Mrs.
Panton with her bay wig and artificial flowers. And not the Pantons only,
but you may be sure there are hordes of St. Mary Axe cockneys, that
would pour forth upon _Mrs. Gresham_, with overwhelming force, and with
partnership and old-acquaintance-sake claims upon her public notice and
private intimacy. Come, come, my dear Caroline, don't speak against your
conscience--you know you never could withstand the hordes of _vulgarians_."

"These vulgarians in buckram," said Caroline, "have grown from two to two
hundred in a trice, in your imagination, Rosamond: but consider that old
Panton, against whom you have such an invincible horror, will, now that
he has quarrelled with Erasmus, probably very soon eat himself out of the
world; and I don't see that you are bound to Mr. Gresham's dead partner's
widow--is this your only objection to Mr. Gresham?"

"My only objection! Oh, no! don't flatter yourself that in killing old
Panton you have struck off all my objections. Independently of vulgar
relations or connexions, and the disparity of age, my grand objection
remains. But I will address myself to my mother, for you are not a good
person for judging of prejudices--you really don't understand them, my dear
Caroline; one might as well talk to Socrates. You go to work with logic,
and get one between the horns of a wicked dilemma directly--I will talk to
my mother; she understands prejudices."

"Your mother thanks you," said Mrs. Percy, smiling, "for your opinion of
her understanding."

"My mother is the most indulgent of mothers, and, besides, the most candid,
and therefore I know she will confess to me that she herself cherishes
a little darling prejudice in favour of birth and family, a _leetle_
prejudice--well covered by good-nature and politeness--but still a secret,
invincible antipathy to low-born people."

"To low-bred people, I grant."

"Oh, mother! you are _upon your candour_--my dear mother, not only low-bred
but low-born: confess you have a--what shall I call it?--an _indisposition_
towards low-born people."

"Since you put me upon my candour," said Mrs. Percy, "I am afraid I must
confess that I am conscious of a little of the aristocratic weakness you
impute to me."

"Impute!--No imputation, in my opinion," cried Rosamond. "I do not think it
any weakness."

"But I do," said Mrs. Percy--"I consider it as a weakness; and bitterly
should I reproach myself, if I saw any weakness, any prejudice of mine,
influence my children injuriously in the most material circumstance of
their lives, and where their happiness is at stake. So, my dear Rosamond,
let me intreat--"

"Oh! mother, don't let the tears come into your eyes; and, without any
intreaties, I will do just as you please."

"My love," said Mrs. Percy, "I have no pleasure but that you should please
yourself and judge for yourself, without referring to any prepossession of
mine. And lest your imagination should deceive you as to the extent of my
aristocratic prejudices, let me explain. The _indisposition_, which I have
acknowledged I feel towards low-born people, arises, I believe, chiefly
from my taking it for granted that they cannot be thoroughly well-bred. I
have accidentally seen examples of people of inferior birth, who, though
they had risen to high station, and though they had acquired, in a certain
degree, polite manners, and had been metamorphosed by fashion, to all
outward appearance, into perfect gentry, yet betrayed some marks of their
origin, or of their early education, whenever their passions or their
interests were touched: then some awkward gesture, some vulgar expression,
some mean or mercenary sentiment, some habitual contraction of mind,
recurred."

"True, true, most true!" said Rosamond. "It requires two generations,
at least, to wash out the stain of vulgarity: neither a gentleman nor a
gentlewoman can be made in less than two generations; therefore I never
will marry a low-born man, if he had every perfection under the sun."

"Nay, my dear, that is too strong," said Mrs. Percy. "Hear me, my dearest
Rosamond. I was going to tell you, that my experience has been so limited,
that I am not justified in drawing from it any general conclusion. And
even to the most positive and rational general rules you know there are
exceptions."

"That is a fine general softening clause," said Rosamond; "but now
positively, mother, would you have ever consented to marry a merchant?"

"Certainly, my dear, if your father bad been a merchant, I should have
married him," replied Mrs. Percy.

"Well, I except my father. To put the question more fairly, may I ask, do
you wish that your daughter should marry a merchant?"

"As I endeavoured to explain to you before, _that_ depends entirely upon
what the merchant is, and upon what my daughter feels for him."

Rosamond sighed.

"I ought to observe, that merchants are now quite in a different class from
what they were at the first rise of commerce in these countries," continued
her mother. "Their education, their habits of thinking, knowledge, and
manners, are improved, and, consequently, their _consideration_, their rank
in society is raised. In our days, some of the best informed, most liberal,
and most respectable men in the British dominions are merchants. I could
not therefore object to my daughter's marrying a merchant; but I should
certainly inquire anxiously what sort of a merchant he was. I do not mean
that I should inquire whether he was concerned in this or that branch of
commerce, but whether his mind were free from every thing mercenary and
illiberal. I have done so with respect to Mr. Gresham, and I can assure
you solemnly, that Mr. Gresham's want of the advantage of high birth is
completely counterbalanced in my opinion by his superior qualities. I see
in him a cultivated, enlarged, generous mind. I have seen him tried, where
his passions and his interests have been nearly concerned, and I never
saw in him the slightest tincture of vulgarity in manner or sentiment:
therefore, my dear daughter, if he has made an impression on your heart,
do not, on my account, conceal or struggle against it; because, far from
objecting to Mr. Gresham for a son-in-law, I should prefer him to any
gentleman or nobleman who had not his exalted character."

"There!" cried Caroline, with a look of joyful triumph, "there! my dear
Rosamond, now your heart must be quite at ease!"

But looking at Rosamond at this moment, she saw no expression of joy or
pleasure in her countenance; and Caroline was now convinced that she had
been mistaken about Rosamond's feelings.

"Really and truly, mother, you think all this?"

"Really and truly, my dear, no motive upon earth would make me disguise my
opinions, or palliate even my prejudices, when you thus consult me, and
depend upon my truth. And now that I have said this much, I will say no
more, lest I should bias you on the other side: I will leave you to your
own feelings and excellent understanding."

Rosamond's affectionate heart was touched so by her mother's kindness,
that she could not for some minutes repress her tears. When she recovered
her voice, she assured her mother and Caroline, with a seriousness and an
earnest frankness which at once convinced them of her truth, that she had
not the slightest partiality for Mr. Gresham; that, on the contrary, his
age was to her a serious objection. She had feared that her friends might
wish for the match, and that being conscious she had no other objection
to make to Mr. Gresham except that she could not love him, she had
hesitated for want of a better reason, when her mother first began this
cross-examination.

Relieved by this thorough explanation, and by the conviction that her
father, mother, and sister, were perfectly satisfied with her decision,
Rosamond was at ease as far as she herself was concerned. But she still
dreaded to see Mr. Gresham again. She was excessively sorry to have given
him pain, and she feared not a little that in rejecting the lover she
should lose the friend.

Mr. Gresham, however, was of too generous a character to cease to be the
friend of the woman he loved, merely because she could not return his
passion: it is wounded pride, not disappointed affection, that turns
immediately from love to hatred.

Rosamond was spared the pain of seeing Mr. Gresham again at this time,
for he left the Hills, and set out immediately for London, where he was
recalled by news of the sudden death of his partner. Old Mr. Panton had
been found dead in his bed, after having supped inordinately the preceding
night upon eel-pie. It was indispensably necessary that Mr. Gresham should
attend at the opening of Panton's will, and Mrs. Panton wrote to represent
this in urgent terms. Mr. Henry was gone to Amsterdam; he had, for some
time previously to the death of Mr. Panton, obtained the partnership's
permission to go over to the Dutch merchants, their correspondents in
Amsterdam, to fill a situation in their house, for which his knowledge of
the Dutch, French, and Spanish languages eminently qualified him.

When Mr. Henry had solicited this employment, Mr. Gresham had been
unwilling to part with him, but had yielded to the young man's earnest
entreaties, and to the idea that this change would, in a lucrative point of
view, be materially for Mr. Henry's advantage.

Some apology to the lovers of romance may be expected for this abrupt
transition from the affairs of the heart to the affairs of the
counting-house--but so it is in real life. We are sorry, but we cannot help
it--we have neither sentiments nor sonnets, ready for every occasion.




CHAPTER XXII.


LETTER FROM ALFRED.

_This appears to have been written some months after the vacation spent at
the Hills_.

  'Oh! thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate,
  Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.'

"You remember, I am sure, my dear father, how angry we were some time ago
with that man, whose name I never would tell you, the man whom Rosamond
called Counsellor _Nameless_, who snatched a _good point_ from me in
arguing Mr. Hauton's cause. This very circumstance has been the means of
introducing me to the notice of three men, all eminent in their profession,
and each with the same inclination to serve me, according to their
respective powers--a solicitor, a barrister, and a judge. Solicitor
Babington (by-the-by, pray tell Rosamond in answer to her question whether
there is an honest attorney, that there are no such things as _attorneys_
now in England--they are all turned into solicitors and agents, just as
every _shop_ is become a _warehouse_, and every _service_ a _situation_),
Babington the solicitor employed against us in that suit a man who knows,
without practising them, all the tricks of the trade, and who is a
thoroughly honest man. He saw the trick that was played by _Nameless_, and
took occasion afterwards to recommend me to several of his own clients.
Upon the strength of this _point_ briefs appeared on my table day after
day--two guineas, three guineas, five guineas! comfortable sight! But far
more comfortable, more gratifying, the kindness of Counsellor Friend: a
more benevolent man never existed. I am sure the profession of the law has
not contracted his heart, and yet you never saw or can conceive a man more
intent upon his business. I believe he eats, drinks, and sleeps upon law:
he has the reputation, in consequence, of being one of the soundest of our
lawyers--the best opinion in England. He seems to make the cause of every
client his own, and is as anxious as if his private property depended on
the fate of each suit. He sets me a fine example of labour, perseverance,
professional enthusiasm and rectitude. He is one of the very best friends
a young lawyer like me could have; he puts me in the way I should go,
and keeps me in it by showing that it is not a matter of chance, but of
certainty, that this is the right road to fortune and to fame.

"Mr. Friend has sometimes a way of paying a compliment as if he were making
a reproach, and of doing a favour as a matter of course. Just now I met
him, and apropos to some observations I happened to make on a cause in
which he is engaged, he said to me, as if he were half angry, though I knew
he was thoroughly pleased, 'Quick parts! Yes, so I see you have: but take
care--in your profession 'tis often "Most haste, worst speed;" not but what
there are happy exceptions, examples of lawyers, who have combined judgment
with wit, industry with genius, and law with eloquence. But these instances
are rare, very rare; for the rarity of the case, worth studying. Therefore
dine with me to-morrow, and I will introduce you to one of these
exceptions.'

"The person in question, I opine, is the lord chief justice--and Friend
could not do me a greater favour than to introduce me to one whom, as you
know, I have long admired in public, and with whom, independently of any
professional advantage, I have ardently wished to be acquainted.

"I have been told--I cannot tell you what--for here's the bell-man. I don't
wonder 'the choleric man' knocked down the postman for blowing his horn in
his ear.

"Abruptly yours,

"ALFRED PERCY."

Alfred had good reason to desire to be acquainted with this lord chief
justice. Some French writer says, "_Qu'il faut plier les grandes ailes de
l'loquence pour entrer dans un salon._" The chief justice did so with
peculiar ease. He possessed perfect conversational _tact_, with great
powers of wit, humour, and all that felicity of allusion, which an
uncommonly recollective memory, acting on stores of varied knowledge, can
alone command. He really conversed; he did not merely tell stories, or
make bonmots, or confine himself to the single combat of close argument,
or the flourish of declamation; but he alternately followed and led,
threw out and received ideas, knowing how to listen full as well as how
to talk, remembering always Lord Chesterfield's experienced maxim, "That
it is easier to hear than to talk yourself into the good opinion of your
auditors." It was not, however, from policy, but from benevolence, that the
chief justice made so good a hearer. It has been said, and with truth, that
with him a _good point_ never passed unnoticed in a public court, nor was
a _good thing_ ever lost upon him in private company. Of the number of his
own good things fewer are in circulation than might be expected. The best
conversation, that which rises from the occasion, and which suits the
moment, suffers most from repetition. Fitted precisely to the peculiar time
and place, the best things cannot bear transplanting.

The day Alfred Percy was introduced to the chief justice, the conversation
began, from some slight remarks made by one of the company, on the acting
of Mrs. Siddons. A lady who had just been reading the memoirs of the
celebrated French actress, Mademoiselle Clairon, spoke of the astonishing
pains which she took to study her parts, and to acquire what the French
call _l'air noble_, continually endeavouring, on the most common occasions,
when she was off the stage, to avoid all awkward motions, and in her
habitual manner to preserve an air of grace and dignity. This led the chief
justice to mention the care which Lord Chatham, Mr. Pitt, and other great
orators, have taken to form their habits of speaking, by unremitting
attention to their language in private as well as in public. He maintained
that no man _can_ speak with ease and security in public till custom has
brought him to feel it as a moral impossibility that he could be guilty
of any petty vulgarism, or that he could be convicted of any capital sin
against grammar.

Alfred felt anxious to hear the chief justice farther on this subject, but
the conversation was dragged back to Mademoiselle Clairon. The lady by
whom she was first mentioned declared she thought that all Mademoiselle
Clairon's studying must have made her a very unnatural actress. The chief
justice quoted the answer which Mademoiselle Clairon gave, when she was
reproached with having too much art.--"_De l'art! et que voudroit-on done
que j'eusse? Etois-je Andromaque? Etois-je Phdre?_"

Alfred observed that those who complained of an actress's having too much
art should rather complain of her having too little--of her not having art
enough to conceal her art.

The chief justice honoured Alfred by a nod and a smile.

The lady, however, protested against this doctrine, and concluded by
confessing that she always did and always should prefer nature to art.

From this commonplace confession, the chief justice, by a playful
cross-examination, presently made it apparent that we do not always know
what we mean by art and what by nature; that the ideas are so mixed in
civilized society, and the words so inaccurately used, both in common
conversation, and in the writings of philosophers, that no metaphysical
prism can separate or reduce them to their primary meaning. Next he touched
upon the distinction between art and artifice. The conversation branched
out into remarks on grace and affectation, and thence to the different
theories of beauty and taste, with all which he _played_ with a master's
hand.

A man accustomed to speak to numbers perceives immediately when his
auditors seize his ideas, and knows instantly, by the assent and expression
of the eye, to whom they are new or to whom they are familiar. The chief
justice discovered that Alfred Percy had superior knowledge, literature,
and talents, even before he spoke, by his manner of listening. The
conversation presently passed from _l'air noble_ to _le style noble_,
and to the French laws of criticism, which prohibit the descending to
allusions to arts and manufactures. This subject he discussed deeply,
yet rapidly observed how taste is influenced by different governments
and manners--remarked how the strong line of demarcation formerly kept
in France between the nobility and the citizens had influenced taste in
writing and in eloquence, and how our more _popular_ government not only
admitted allusions to the occupations of the lower classes, but required
them. Our orators at elections, and in parliament, must speak so as to come
home to the feelings and vocabulary of constituents. Examples from Burke
and others, the chief justice said, might be brought in support of this
opinion.

Alfred was so fortunate as to recollect some apposite illustrations from
Burke, and from several of our great orators, Wyndham, Erskine, Mackintosh,
and Romilly. As Alfred spoke, the chief justice's eye brightened with
approbation, and it was observed that he afterwards addressed to him
particularly his conversation; and, more flattering still, that he went
deeper into the subject which he had been discussing. From one of the
passages which had been mentioned, he took occasion to answer the argument
of the French critics, who justify their taste by asserting that it is the
taste of the ancients. Skilled in classical as in modern literature, he
showed that the ancients had made allusions to arts and manufactures, as
far as their knowledge went; but, as he observed, in modern times new arts
and sciences afford fresh subjects of allusion unknown to the ancients;
consequently we ought not to restrict our taste by exclusive reverence
for classical precedents. On these points it is requisite to reform the
pandects of criticism.

Another passage from Burke, to which Alfred had alluded, the chief
justice thought too rich in ornament. "Ornaments," he said, "if not
kept subordinate, however intrinsically beautiful, injure the general
effect--therefore a judicious orator will sacrifice all such as draw the
attention from his principal design."

Alfred Percy, in support of this opinion, cited the example of the Spanish
painter, who obliterated certain beautiful silver vases, which he had
introduced in a picture of the Lord's Supper, because he found, that at
first view, every spectator's eye was caught by these splendid ornaments,
and every one extolled their exquisite finish, instead of attending to the
great subject of the piece.

The chief justice was so well pleased with the conversation of our young
barrister, that, at parting, he gave Alfred an invitation to his house. The
conversation had been very different from what might have been expected:
metaphysics, belles-lettres, poetry, plays, criticism--what a range of
ideas, far from Coke and Selden, was gone over this evening in the course
of a few hours! Alfred had reason to be more and more convinced of the
truth of his father's favourite doctrine, that the general cultivation of
the understanding, and the acquirement of general knowledge, are essential
to the attainment of excellence in any profession, useful to a young man
particularly in introducing him to the notice of valuable friends and
acquaintance.

An author well skilled in the worst parts of human nature has asserted,
that "nothing is more tiresome than praises in which we have no manner of
share." Yet we, who have a better opinion of our kind, trust that there are
some who can sympathize in the enthusiasm of a good and young mind, struck
with splendid talents, and with a superior character; therefore we venture
to insert some of the warm eulogiums, with which we find our young lawyer's
letters filled.


"My DEAR FATHER,

"I have only a few moments to write, but cannot delay to answer your
question about the chief justice. _Disappointed_--no danger of that--he far
surpasses my expectations. It has been said that he never opened a book,
that he never heard a common ballad, or saw a workman at his trade, without
learning something, which he afterwards turned to good account. This you
may see in his public speeches, but I am more completely convinced of it
since I have heard him converse. His illustrations are drawn from the
workshop, the manufactory, the mine, the mechanic, the poet--from every art
and science, from every thing in nature, animate or inanimate.

  'From gems, from flames, from orient rays of light,
  The richest lustre makes his purple bright.'

"Perhaps I am writing his panegyric because he is my lord chief justice,
and because I dined with him yesterday, and am to dine with him again
to-morrow.

"Yours affectionately,

"ALFRED PERCY."

In a subsequent letter he shows that his admiration increased instead of
diminishing, upon a more intimate acquaintance with its object.

"High station," says Alfred, "appears to me much more desirable, since I
have known this great man. He makes rank so gracious, and shows that it is
a pleasurable, not a 'painful pre-eminence,' when it gives the power of
raising others, and of continually doing kind and generous actions. Mr.
Friend tells me, that, before the chief justice was so high as he is now,
without a rival in his profession, he was ever the most generous man to his
competitors. I am sure he is now the most kind and condescending to his
inferiors. In company he is never intent upon himself, seems never anxious
about his own dignity or his own fame. He is sufficiently sure of both to
be quite at ease. He excites my ambition, and exalts its nature and value.

"He has raised my esteem for my profession, by showing the noble use that
can be made of it, in defending right and virtue. He has done my mind
good in another way: he has shown me that professional labour is not
incompatible with domestic pleasures. I wish you could see him as I do,
in the midst of his family, with his fine children playing about him,
with his wife, a charming cultivated woman, who adores him, and who is
his best companion and friend. Before I knew the chief justice, I had
seen other great lawyers and judges, some of them crabbed old bachelors,
others uneasily yoked to vulgar helpmates--having married early in life
women whom they had dragged up as they rose, but who were always pulling
them down--had seen some of these learned men sink into mere epicures,
and become dead to intellectual enjoyment--others, with higher minds,
and originally fine talents, I had seen in premature old age, with
understandings contracted and palsied by partial or overstrained exertion,
worn out, mind and body, and only late, very late in life, just attaining
wealth and honours, when they were incapable of enjoying them. This had
struck me as a deplorable and discouraging spectacle--a sad termination of
a life of labour. But now I see a man in the prime of life, in the full
vigour of all his intellectual faculties and moral sensibility, with a high
character, fortune, and professional honours, all obtained by his own merit
and exertions, with the prospect of health and length of days to enjoy and
communicate happiness. Exulting in the sight of this resplendent luminary,
and conscious that it will guide and cheer me forwards, I 'bless the useful
light.'"

Our young lawyer was so honestly enthusiastic in his admiration of this
great man, and was so full of the impression that had been made on his
mind, that he forgot in this letter to advert to the advantage which, in a
professional point of view, he might derive from the good opinion formed of
him by the chief justice. In consequence of Solicitor Babington's telling
his clients the share which Alfred had in winning Colonel Hauton's cause,
he was employed in a suit of considerable importance, in which a great
landed property was at stake. It was one of those standing suits which
last from year to year, and which seem likely to linger on from generation
to generation. Instead of considering his brief in this cause merely as
a means of obtaining a fee, instead of contenting himself to make some
_motion of course_, which fell to his share, Alfred set himself seriously
to study the case, and searched indefatigably for all the precedents that
could bear upon it. He was fortunate enough, or rather he was persevering
enough, to find an old case in point, which had escaped the attention of
the other lawyers. Mr. Friend was one of the senior counsel in this cause,
and he took generous care that Alfred's merit should not now, as upon
a former occasion, he concealed. Mr. Friend prevailed upon his brother
barristers to agree in calling upon Alfred to speak to his own _case in
point_; and the chief justice, who presided, said, "This case is new to me.
This had escaped me, Mr. Percy; I must take another day to reconsider the
matter, before I can pronounce judgment."

This from the chief justice, with the sense which Alfred's brother
barristers felt of his deserving such notice, was of immediate and material
advantage to our young lawyer. Attorneys and solicitors turned their eyes
upon him, briefs began to flow in, and his diligence increased with his
business. As junior counsel, he still had little opportunity in the common
course of things of distinguishing himself, as it frequently fell to his
share only to say a few words; but he never failed to make himself master
of every case in which he was employed. And it happened one day, when the
senior counsel was ill, the judge called upon the next barrister.--"Mr.
Trevors, are you prepared?"

"My lord--I can't say--no, my lord."

"Mr. Percy, are you prepared?"

"Yes, my lord."

"So I thought--always prepared: go on, sir--go on, Mr. Percy."

He went on, and spoke so ably, and with such comprehensive knowledge of the
case and of the law, that he obtained a decision in favour of his client,
and established his own reputation as a man of business and of talents,
who was _always prepared_. For the manner in which he was brought forward
and distinguished by the chief justice he was truly grateful. This was
a species of patronage honourable both to the giver and the receiver.
Here was no favour shown disproportionate to deserts, but here was just
distinction paid to merit, and generous discernment giving talents
opportunity of developing themselves. These opportunities would only have
been the ruin of a man who could not show himself equal to the occasion;
but this was not the case with Alfred. His capacity, like the fairy tent,
seemed to enlarge so as to contain all that it was necessary to comprehend:
and new powers appeared in him in new situations.

Alfred had been introduced by his brother Erasmus to some of those men of
literature with whom he had become acquainted at Lady Spilsbury's good
dinners. Among these was a Mr. Dunbar, a gentleman who had resided for many
years in India, from whom Alfred, who constantly sought for information
from all with whom he conversed, had learned much of Indian affairs. Mr.
Dunbar had collected some curious tracts on Mohammedan law, and glad
to find an intelligent auditor on his favourite subject, a subject not
generally interesting, he willingly communicated all he knew to Alfred,
and lent him his manuscripts and scarce tracts, which Alfred, in the many
leisure hours that a young lawyer can command before he gets into practice,
had studied, and of which he had made himself master. It happened a
considerable time afterwards that the East India Company had a cause--one
of the greatest causes ever brought before our courts of law--relative to
the demand of some native bankers in Hindostan against the company for
upwards of four millions of rupees. This Mr. Dunbar, who had a considerable
interest in the cause, and who was intimate with several of the directors,
recommended it to them to employ Mr. Alfred Percy, who, as he knew, had had
ample means of information, and who had studied a subject of which few of
his brother barristers had any knowledge. The very circumstance of his
being employed in a cause of such importance was of great advantage to him;
and the credit he gained by accurate and uncommon knowledge in the course
of the suit at once raised his reputation among the best judges, and
_established_ him in the courts.

On another occasion, Alfred's moral character was as serviceable as his
literary taste had been in recommending him to his clients. Buckhurst
Falconer had introduced him to a certain Mr. Clay, known by the name of
_French_ Clay. In a conversation after dinner, when the ladies had retired,
Mr. Clay had boasted of his successes with the fair sex, and had expressed
many sentiments that marked him for a profligate coxcomb.

Alfred felt disgust and indignation for this parade of vice. There was
one officer in company who strongly sympathized in his feelings; this led
to farther acquaintance and mutual esteem. This officer soon afterwards
married Lady Harriet ----, a beautiful young woman, with whom he lived
happily for some time, till, unfortunately, while her husband was abroad
with his regiment, chance brought the wife, at a watering-place, into the
company of French Clay, and imprudence, the love of flattery, coquetry, and
self-confidence, made her a victim to his vanity. Love he had none--nor she
either--but her disgrace was soon discovered, or revealed; and her unhappy
and almost distracted husband immediately commenced a suit against Clay. He
chose Alfred Percy for his counsel. In this cause, where strong feelings
of indignation were justly roused, and where there was room for oratory,
Alfred spoke with such force and pathos that every honest heart was
touched. The verdict of the jury showed the impression which he had made
upon them: his speech was universally admired; and those who had till now
known him only as a man of business, and a sound lawyer, were surprised to
find him suddenly display such powers of eloquence. Counsellor Friend's
plain advice to him had always been, "Never harangue about nothing: if
your client require it, he is a fool, and never mind him; never speak till
you've something to say, and then only say what you have to say.

  'Words are like leaves, and where they most abound,
  Much fruit of solid sense is seldom found.'"

Friend now congratulated Alfred with all his honest affectionate heart, and
said, with a frown that struggled hard with a smile, "Well, I believe I
must allow you to be an orator. But, take care--don't let the lawyer merge
in the advocate. Bear it always in mind, that a mere man of words at the
bar--or indeed any where else--is a mere man of straw."

The chief justice, who knew how to say the kindest things in the most
polite manner, was heard to observe, that "Mr. Percy had done wisely, to
begin by showing that he had laid a solid foundation of law, on which the
ornaments of oratory could be raised high, and supported securely."

French Clay's _affair_ with Lady Harriot had been much talked of in the
fashionable world; from a love of scandal or a love of justice, from zeal
in the cause of morality or from natural curiosity, her trial had been a
matter of general interest to the ladies, young and old. In consequence Mr.
Alfred Percy's speech was _prodigiously_ read, and, from various motives,
highly applauded. When a man begins to rise, all hands--all hands but the
hands of his rivals--are ready to push him up, and all tongues exclaim,
"'Twas I helped!" or, "'Twas what I always foretold!"

The Lady Angelica Headingham now bethought herself that she had a little
poem, written by Mr. Alfred Percy, which had been given to her long ago by
Miss Percy, and of which, at the time she received it, her ladyship had
thought so little, that hardly deigning to bestow the customary tribute of
a compliment, she had thrown it, scarcely perused, into her writing-box.
It was now worth while to rummage for it, and now, when the author had a
_name_, her ladyship discovered that the poem was charming--absolutely
charming! Such an early indication of talents! Such a happy promise of
genius!--Oh! she had always foreseen that Mr. Alfred Percy would make an
uncommon figure in the world!

"Bless me! does your ladyship know him?"

"Oh! intimately!--That is, I never saw _him_ exactly--but all his family
I've known intimately--ages ago in the country."

"I should so like to meet him! And do pray give me a copy of the
verses--and me!--and me!"

To work went the pens of all the female amateurs, in scribbling copies
of "_The Lawyer's May-day_."--And away went the fair patroness in search
of the author--introduced herself with unabashed grace, invited him for
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday--Engaged? how unfortunate!--Well, for
next week? a fortnight hence? three weeks? positively she must have him at
her conversazione--she must give him--No, he must give her a day, he must
consent to lose a day--so many of her friends and real judges were dying to
see him.

To save the lives of so many judges, he consented to lose an evening--the
day was fixed--Alfred found her conversazione very brilliant--was
admired--and admired others in his turn as much as was expected. It was
an agreeable variety of company and of thought to him, and he promised
to go sometimes to her ladyship's parties--a promise which delighted her
much, particularly as he had not yet given a copy of the verses to Lady
Spilsbury. Lady Spilsbury, to whom the verses quickly worked round, was
quite angry that her friend Erasmus had not given her an early copy; and
now invitations the most pressing came from Lady Spilsbury to her excellent
literary dinners. If Alfred had been so disposed, he might, among these
fetchers and carriers of bays, have been extolled to the skies; but he had
too much sense and prudence to lose the substance for the shadow, to sink a
solid character into a _drawing-room reputation_. Of this he had seen the
folly in Buckhurst Falconer's case, and now, if any farther warning on this
subject had been wanting, he would have taken it from the example of _poor_
Seebright, the poet, whom he met the second time he went to Lady Angelica
Headingham's. _Poor Seebright_, as the world already began to call him,
from being an object of admiration, was beginning to sink into an object
of pity. Instead of making himself independent by steady exertions in
any respectable profession, instead of making his way in the republic
of letters by some solid work of merit, he frittered away his time among
fashionable amateurs, feeding upon their flattery, and living on in
the vain hope of patronage. Already the flight of his genius had been
restrained, the force of his wing impaired; instead of soaring superior, he
kept hovering near the earth; his "kestrel courage fell," he appeared to
be almost tamed to the domestic state to which he was reduced--yet now and
then a rebel sense of his former freedom, and of his present degradation,
would appear. "Ah! if I were but independent as you are! If I had but
followed a profession as you have done!" said he to Alfred, when, apart
from the crowd, they had an opportunity of conversing confidentially.

Alfred replied that it was not yet too late, that it was never too late for
a man of spirit and talents to make himself independent; he then suggested
to Mr. Seebright various ways of employing his powers, and pointed out some
useful and creditable literary undertakings, by which he might acquire
reputation. Seebright listened, his eye eagerly catching at each new
idea the first moment, the next turning off to something else, raising
objections futile or fastidious, seeing nothing impossible in any dream of
his imagination, where no effort of exertion was requisite, but finding
every thing impracticable when he came to sober reality, where he was
called upon to labour. In fact, he was one of the sort of people who do
not know what they want, or what they would be, who complain and complain;
disappointed and discontented, at having sunk below their powers and their
hopes, and are yet without capability of persevering exertion to emerge
from their obscurity. Seebright was now become an inefficient being, whom
no one could assist to any good purpose. Alfred, after a long, mazy,
fruitless conversation, was convinced that the case was hopeless, and,
sincerely pitying him, gave it up as irremediable. Just as he had come to
this conclusion, and had sunk into silence, a relation of his, whom he had
not seen for a considerable time, entered the room, and passed by without
noticing him. She was so much altered in her appearance, that he could
scarcely believe he saw Lady Jane Granville; she looked out of spirits, and
care-worn. He immediately observed that less attention was paid to her than
she used to command; she had obviously sunk considerably in importance, and
appeared to feel this keenly. Upon inquiry, Alfred learnt that she had lost
a large portion of her fortune by a lawsuit, which she had managed, that is
to say, mismanaged, for herself; and she was still at law for the remainder
of her estate, which, notwithstanding her right was undoubted, it was
generally supposed that she would lose, for the same reason that occasioned
her former failure, her pertinacity in following her own advice only.
Alfred knew that there had been some misunderstanding between Lady Jane
and his family, that she had been offended by his sister Caroline having
declined accepting her invitation to town, and from Mr. and Mrs. Percy
having differed with her in opinion as to the value of the _patronage_
of fashion: she had also been displeased with Erasmus about Sir Amyas
Courtney. Notwithstanding all this, he was convinced that Lady Jane,
whatever her opinions might be, and whether mistaken or not, had been
actuated by sincere regard for his family, for which he and they were
grateful; and now was the time to show it, now when he was coming into
notice in the world, and she declining in importance. Therefore, though she
had passed by him without recognizing him, he went immediately and spoke
to her in so respectful and kind a manner, paid her the whole evening such
marked attention, that she was quite pleased and touched. In reality, she
had been vexed with herself for having persisted so long in her resentment;
she wished for a fair opportunity for a reconciliation, and she rejoiced
that Alfred thus opened the way for it. She invited him to come to see her
the next day, observing, as she put her card into his hand, that she no
longer lived in her fine house in St. James's place. Now that his motives
could not be mistaken, he was assiduous in his visits; and when he had
sufficiently obtained her confidence, he ventured to touch upon her
affairs. She, proud to convince him of her abilities as a woman of
business, explained her whole case, and descanted upon the blunders and
folly of her solicitors and counsellors, especially upon the absurdity
of the opinions which she had not followed. Her cause depended upon the
_replication_ she was to put in to a plea in special pleading: she thought
she saw the way straight before her, and exclaimed vehemently against that
love of the crooked path by which her lawyers seemed possessed.

Without disputing the legal soundness of her ladyship's opinion in her own
peculiar case, Alfred, beginning at a great distance from her passions,
quietly undertook, by relating to her cases which had fallen under his own
knowledge, to convince her that plain common sense and reason could never
lead her to the knowledge of the rules of special pleading, or to the
proper wording of those answers, on the _letter_ of which the fate of a
cause frequently depends. He confessed to her that his own understanding
had been so shocked at first by the apparent absurdity of the system,
that he had almost abandoned the study, and that it had been only in
consequence of actual experience that he had at last discovered the utility
of those rules. She insisted upon being also convinced before she could
submit; but as it is not quite so easy as ladies sometimes think it is to
teach any art or science in two words, or to convey, in a moment, to the
ignorant, the combined result of study and experience, Alfred declined this
task, and could undertake only to show her ladyship, by asking her opinion
on various cases which had been decided in the courts, that it was possible
she might be mistaken; and that, however superior her understanding, a
court of law would infallibly decide according to its own rules.

"But, good Heavens! my dear sir," exclaimed Lady Jane, "when, after I have
paid the amount of my bond, and every farthing that I owe a creditor,
yet this rogue says I have not, is not it a proper answer that I owe him
nothing?"

"Pardon me, this would be considered as an evasive plea by the court, or as
a _negative pregnant_."

"Oh! if you come to your _negative pregnants_," cried Lady Jane, "it is
impossible to understand you--I give up the point."

To this conclusion it had been Alfred's object to bring her ladyship; and
when she was fully convinced of the insufficient limits of the human--he
never said the female--understanding to comprehend these things without the
aid of men learned in the law, he humbly offered his assistance to guide
her out of that labyrinth, into which, unwittingly and without any clue,
she had ventured farther and farther, till she was just in the very jaws
of nonsuit and ruin. She put her affairs completely into his hands, and
promised that she would no farther interfere, even with her advice; for it
was upon this condition that Alfred engaged to undertake the management
of her cause. Nothing indeed is more tormenting to men of business, than
to be pestered with the incessant advice, hopes and fears, cautions and
explanations, cunning suggestions, superficial knowledge, and profound
ignorance, of lady or gentlemen lawyers. Alfred now begged and obtained
permission from the court to amend the Lady Jane Granville's last plea--he
thenceforward conducted the business, and played the game of special
pleading with such strict and acute attention to the rules, that there were
good hopes the remaining portion of her ladyship's fortune, which was now
at stake, might be saved. He endeavoured to keep up her spirits and her
patience, for of a speedy termination to the business there was no chance.
They had to deal with adversaries who knew how, on their side, to protract
the pleadings, and to avoid what is called _coming to the point_.

It was a great pleasure to Alfred thus to have it in his power to assist
his friends, and the hope of serving them redoubled his diligence. About
this time he was engaged in a cause for his brother's friend and Rosamond's
admirer, Mr. Gresham. A picture-dealer had cheated this gentleman, in the
sale of a picture of considerable value. Mr. Gresham had bargained for, and
bought, an original Guido, wrote his name on the back of it, and directed
that it should be sent to him. The painting which was taken to his house
had his name written on the back, but was not the original Guido for which
he had bargained--it was a copy. The picture-dealer, however, and two
respectable witnesses, were ready to swear positively that this was the
identical picture on which Mr. Gresham wrote his name--that they saw him
write his name, and heard him order that it should be sent to him. Mr.
Gresham himself acknowledged that the writing was so like his own that he
could not venture to deny that it was his, and yet he could swear that this
was not the picture for which he had bargained, and on which he had written
his name. He suspected it to be a forgery; and was certain that, by some
means, one picture had been substituted for another. Yet the defendant had
witnesses to prove that the picture never was out of Mr. Gresham's sight,
from the time he bargained for it, till the moment when he wrote his name
on the back, in the presence of the same witnesses.

This chain of evidence they thought was complete, and that it could not
be broken. Alfred Percy, however, discovered the nature of the fraud,
and, regardless of the boasts and taunts of the opposite party, kept his
mind carefully secret, till the moment when he came to cross-examine the
witnesses; for, as Mr. Friend had observed to him, many a cause had been
lost by the impatience of counsel, in showing, beforehand, how it might
certainly be won [Footnote: See Deinology.]. By thus revealing the intended
mode of attack, opportunity is given to prepare a defence by which it may
be ultimately counteracted. In the present case, the defendant, however,
came into court secure of victory, and utterly unprepared to meet the
truth, which was brought out full upon him when least expected. The fact
was, that he had put two pictures into the same frame--the original in
front, the copy behind it: on the back of the canvass of the copy Mr.
Gresham had written his name, never suspecting that it was not the original
for which he bargained, and which he thought he actually held in his hand.
The witnesses, therefore, swore literally the truth, that they saw him
write upon _that_ picture; and they believed the picture, on which he
wrote, was the identical picture that was sent home to him. One of the
witnesses was an honest man, who really believed what he swore, and knew
nothing of the fraud, to which the other, a rogue in confederacy with
the picture-dealer, was privy. The cross-examination of both was so ably
managed, that the honest man was soon made to perceive and the rogue
forced to reveal the truth. Alfred had reason to be proud of the credit he
obtained for the ability displayed in this cross-examination, but he was
infinitely more gratified by having it in his power to gain a cause for his
friend, and to restore to Mr. Gresham his favourite Guido.

A welcome sight--a letter from Godfrey! the first his family had received
from him since he left England. Two of his letters, it appears, had been
lost. Alluding to one he had written immediately on hearing of the change
in his father's fortune, he observes, that he has kept his resolution of
living within his pay; and, after entering into some other family details,
he continues as follows: "Now, my dear mother, prepare to hear me recant
what I have said against Lord Oldborough. I forgive his lordship all his
sins, and I begin to believe, that though he is a statesman, his heart is
not yet quite _ossified_. He has recalled our regiment from this unhealthy
place, and he has promoted Gascoigne to be our lieutenant-colonel. I say
that Lord Oldborough has done all this, because I am sure, from a hint in
Alfred's last letter, that his lordship has been the prime mover in the
business. But not to keep you in suspense about the facts.

"In my first letter to my father, I told you, that from the moment our late
lethargic lieutenant-colonel came to the island, he took to drinking rum,
pure rum, to waken himself--claret, port, and madeira, had lost their power
over him. Then came brandy, which he fancied was an excellent preservative
against the yellow fever, and the fever of the country. So he died 'boldly
by brandy.' Poor fellow! he was boasting to me, the last week of his
existence, when he was literally on his deathbed, that his father taught
him to drink before he was six years old, by practising him every day,
after dinner, in the sublime art of carrying a bumper steadily to his lips.
He, moreover, boasted to me, that when a boy of thirteen, at an academy, he
often drank two bottles of claret at a sitting; and that, when he went into
the army, getting among a jolly set, he brought himself never to feel the
worse for any quantity of wine. I don't know what he meant by the worse
for it--at forty-five, when I first saw him, he had neither head nor hand
left for himself or his country. His hand shook so, that if he had been
perishing with thirst, he could not have carried a glass to his lips, till
after various attempts in all manner of curves and zigzags, spilling half
of it by the way. It was really pitiable to see him--when he was to sign
his name I always went out of the room, and left Gascoigne to guide his
hand. More helpless still his mind than his body. If his own or England's
salvation had depended upon it, he could not, when in the least hurried,
have uttered a distinct order, have dictated an intelligible letter; or, in
time of need, have recollected the name of any one of his officers, or even
his own name--quite imbecile and embruted. But, peace to his ashes--or
rather to his dregs--and may there never be such another British colonel!

"Early habits of temperance have not only saved my life, but made my life
worth saving. Neither Colonel Gascoigne nor I have ever had a day's serious
illness since we came to the island--but we are the only two that have
escaped. Partly from the colonel's example, and partly from their own
inclination, all the other officers have drunk hard. Lieutenant R---- is
now ill of the fever; Captain H---- (I beg his pardon), now Major H----,
will soon follow the colonel to the grave, unless he takes my very
disinterested advice, and drinks less. I am laughed at by D---- and V----
and others for this; they ask why the deuce I can't let the major kill
himself his own way, and as fast as he pleases, when I should get on a step
by it, and that step such a great one. They say none but a fool would do
as I do, and I think none but a brute could do otherwise--I can't stand by
with any satisfaction, and see a fellow-creature killing himself by inches,
even though I have the chance of slipping into his shoes: I am sure the
shoes would pinch me confoundedly. If it is my brother-officer's lot to
fall in battle--it's very well--I run the same hazard--he dies, as he ought
to do, a brave fellow; but to stand by, and see a man die as he ought not
to do, and die what is called an _honest fellow_!--I can't do it. H---- at
first had a great mind to run me through the body; but, poor man, he is now
very fond of me, and if any one can keep him from destroying himself, I
flatter myself I shall.

"A thousand thanks to dear Caroline for her letter, and to Rosamond for her
journal. They, who have never been an inch from home, cannot conceive how
delightful it is, at such a distance, to receive letters from our friends.
You remember, in Cook's voyage, his joy at meeting in some distant island
with the spoon marked _London_.

"I hope you received my letters, Nos. I and 2. Not that there was any thing
particular in them. You know I never do more than tell the bare facts--not
like Rosamond's journal--with which, by-the-bye, Gascoigne has fallen
in love. He sighs, and wishes that Heaven had blessed him with such a
sister--for _sister_, read wife. I hope this will encourage Rosamond to
write again immediately. No; do not tell what I have just said about
Gascoigne, for--who knows the perverse ways of women?--perhaps it might
prevent her from writing to me at all. You may tell her, in general, that
it is my opinion ladies always write better and do every thing better than
men--except fight, which Heaven forbid they should ever do in public or
private!

"I am glad that Caroline did not marry Mr. Barclay, since she did not
like him; but by all accounts he is a sensible, worthy man, and I give my
consent to his marriage with Lady Mary Pembroke, though, from Caroline's
description, I became half in love with her myself. N.B. I have not been
in love above six times since I left England, and but once any thing to
signify. How does the Marchioness of Twickenham go on?

"Affectionate duty to my father, and love to all the happy people at home.

"Dear mother,

"Your affectionate son,

"G. PERCY."




CHAPTER XXIII.


LETTER FROM ALFRED TO CAROLINE.

"MY DEAR CAROLINE,

"I am going to surprise you--I know it is the most imprudent thing a
story-teller can do to give notice or promise of a surprise; but you see,
I have such confidence at this moment in my fact, that I hazard this
imprudence--Whom do you think I have seen? Guess--guess all round the
breakfast-table--father, mother, Caroline, Rosamond--I defy you all--ay,
Rosamond, even you, with all your capacity for romance; the romance of real
life is beyond all other romances--its coincidences beyond the combinations
of the most inventive fancy--even of yours, Rosamond--Granted--go
on--Patience, ladies, if you please, and don't turn over the page, or
glance to the end of my letter to satisfy your curiosity, but read fairly
on, says my father.

"You remember, I hope, the Irishman, O'Brien, to whom Erasmus was so good,
and whom Mr. Gresham, kind as he always is, took for his porter: when Mr.
Gresham set off last week for Amsterdam, he gave this fellow leave to go
home to his wife, who lives at Greenwich. This morning, the wife came
to see my honour to speak to me, and when she did see me she could not
speak, she was crying so bitterly; she was in the greatest distress about
her husband: he had, she said, in going to see her, been seized by a
press-gang, and put on board a tender now on the Thames. Moved by the poor
Irishwoman's agony of grief, and helpless state, I went to Greenwich, where
the tender was lying, to speak to the captain, to try to obtain O'Brien's
release. But upon my arrival there, I found that the woman had been
mistaken in every point of her story. In short, her husband was not on
board the tender, had never been pressed, and had only stayed away from
home the preceding night, in consequence of having met with the captain's
servant, one of his countrymen, from the county of Leitrim dear, who had
taken him home to treat him, and had kept him all night to sing 'St.
Patrick's day in the morning,' and to drink a good journey, and a quick
passage, across the salt water to his master, which he could not refuse.
Whilst I was looking at my watch, and regretting my lost morning, a
gentleman, whose servant had really been pressed, came up to speak to the
captain, who was standing beside me. The gentleman had something striking
and noble in his whole appearance; but his address and accent, which were
those of a foreigner, did not suit the fancy of my English captain, who,
putting on the surly air, with which he thought it for his honour and for
the honour of his country to receive a Frenchman, as he took this gentleman
to be, replied in the least satisfactory manner possible, and in the short
language of some seamen, 'Your footman's an Englishman, sir; has been
pressed for an able-bodied seaman, which I trust he'll prove; he's aboard
the tender, and there he will remain.' The foreigner, who, notwithstanding
the politeness of his address, seemed to have a high spirit, and to be
fully sensible of what was due from others to him as well as from him to
them, replied with temper and firmness. The captain, without giving any
reasons, or attending to what was said, reiterated, 'I am under orders,
sir; I am acting according to my orders--I can do neither more nor less.
The law is as I tell you, sir.'

"The foreigner bowed submission to the law, but expressed his surprise
that such should be law in a land of liberty. With admiration he had
heard, that, by the English law and British constitution, the property and
personal liberty of the lowest, the meanest subject, could not be injured
or oppressed by the highest nobleman in the realm, by the most powerful
minister, even by the king himself. He had always been assured that the
king could not put his hand into the purse of the subject, or take from him
to the value of a single penny; that the sovereign could not deprive the
meanest of the people unheard, untried, uncondemned, of a single hour of
his liberty, or touch a hair of his head; he had always, on the continent,
heard it the boast of Englishmen, that when even a slave touched English
ground he became free: 'Yet now, to my astonishment,' pursued the
foreigner, 'what do I see?--a freeborn British subject returning to his
native land, after an absence of some years, unoffending against any law,
innocent, unsuspected of all crime, a faithful domestic, an excellent man,
prevented from returning to his family and his home, put on board a king's
ship, unused to hard labour, condemned to work like a galley slave, doomed
to banishment, perhaps to death!--Good Heavens! In all this where is your
English liberty? Where is English justice, and the spirit of your English
law?'

"'And who the devil are you, sir?' cried the captain, 'who seem to know so
much and so little of English law?'

"'My name, if that be of any consequence, is Count Albert Altenberg.'

"'Well, Caroline, you are surprised.--'No,' says Rosamond; 'I guessed it
was he, from the first moment I heard he was a foreigner, and had a noble
air.''

"'Altenberg,' repeated the captain; 'that's not a French name:--Why, you
are not a Frenchman!'

"'No, sir--a German.'

"'Ah ha!' cried the captain, suddenly changing his tone, 'I thought you
were not a Frenchman, or you could not talk so well of English law, and
feel so much for English liberty; and now, since that's the case, I'll own
to you frankly, that in the main I'm much of your mind--and for my own
particular share, I'd as lieve the Admiralty had sent me to hell as have
ordered me to press on the Thames. But my business is to obey orders--which
I will do, by the blessing of God--so good morning to you. As to law, and
justice, and all that, talk to him,' said the captain, pointing with his
thumb over his left shoulder to me as he walked off hastily.

"'Poor fellow!' said I; 'this is the hardest part of a British captain's
duty, and so he feels it.'

"'Duty!' exclaimed the count--'Duty! pardon me for repeating your word--but
can it be his duty? I hope I did not pass proper bounds in speaking to him;
but now he is gone, I may say to you, sir--to you, who, if I may presume to
judge from your countenance, sympathize in my feelings--this is a fitter
employment for an African slave-merchant than for a British officer. The
whole scene which I have just beheld there on the river, on the banks,
the violence, the struggles I have witnessed there, the screams of the
women and children,--it is not only horrible, but in England incredible!
Is it not like what we have heard of on the coast of Africa with
detestation--what your humanity has there forbidden--abolished? And is it
possible that the cries of those negroes across the Atlantic can so affect
your philanthropists' imaginations, whilst you are deaf or unmoved by these
cries of your countrymen, close to your metropolis, at your very gates? I
think I hear them still,' said the count, with a look of horror. 'Such a
scene I never before beheld! I have seen it--and yet I cannot believe that
I have seen it in England.'

"I acknowledged that the sight was terrible; I could not be surprised that
the operation of pressing men for the sea service should strike a foreigner
as inconsistent with the notion of English justice and liberty, and I
admired the energy and strength of feeling which the count showed; but I
defended the measure as well as I could, on the plea of necessity.

"'Necessity!' said the count: 'Pardon me if I remind you that necessity is
the tyrant's plea.'

"I mended my plea, and changed necessity into utility--general utility.
It was essential to England's defence--to her existence--she could not
exist without her navy, and her navy could not be maintained without a
press-gang--as I was assured by those who were skilled in naval affairs.

"The count smiled at my evident consciousness of the weakness of my
concluding corollary, and observed that, by my own statement, the whole
argument depended on the assertions of those who maintained that a navy
could not exist without a press-gang. He urged this no further, and I was
glad of it; his horses and mine were at this moment brought up, and we both
rode together to town.

"I know that Rosamond, at this instant, is gasping with impatience to hear
whether in the course of this ride I spoke of M. de Tourville--and the
shipwreck. I did--but not of Euphrosyne: upon that subject I could not well
touch. He had heard of the shipwreck, and of the hospitality with which the
sufferers had been treated by an English gentleman, and he was surprised
and pleased, when I told him that I was the son of that gentleman. Of M. de
Tourville, the count, I fancy, thinks much the same as you do. He spoke of
him as an intriguing diplomatist, of quick talents, but of a mind incapable
of any thing great or generous. The count went on from speaking of M. de
Tourville to some of the celebrated public characters abroad, and to the
politics and manners of the different courts and countries of Europe.
For so young a man, he has seen and reflected much. He is indeed a very
superior person, as he convinced me even in this short ride. You know that
Dr. Johnson says, 'that you cannot stand for five minutes with a great
man under a shed, waiting till a shower is over, without hearing him say
something that another man could not say.' But though the count conversed
with me so well and so agreeably, I could see that his mind was, from time
to time, absent and anxious; and as we came into town, he again spoke of
the press-gang, and of his poor servant--a faithful attached servant, he
called him, and I am sure the count is a good master, and a man of feeling.
He had offered money to obtain the man's release in vain. A substitute
it was at this time difficult to find--the count was but just arrived in
London, had not yet presented any of his numerous letters of introduction;
he mentioned the names of some of the people to whom these were addressed,
and he asked me whether application to any of them could be of service. But
none of his letters were to any of the men now in power. Lord Oldborough
was the only person I knew whose word would be law in this case, and I
offered to go with him to his lordship. This I ventured, my dear father,
because I wisely--yes, wisely, as you shall see, calculated that the
introduction of a foreigner, fresh from the continent, and from that court
where Cunningham Falconer is now resident envoy, would be agreeable, and
might be useful to the minister.

"My friend, Mr. Temple, who is as obliging and as much my friend now he is
secretary to _the_ great man as he was when he was a scrivening nobody in
his garret, obtained audience for us directly. I need not detail--indeed I
have not time--graciously received--count's business done by a line--Temple
ordered to write to Admiralty: Lord Oldborough seemed obliged to me for
introducing the count--I saw he wished to have some private conversation
with him--rose, and took my leave. Lord Oldborough paid me for my
discretion on the spot by a kind look--a great deal from him--and following
me to the door of the antechamber, 'Mr. Percy, I cannot regret that you
have followed your own independent professional course--I congratulate
you upon your success--I have heard of it from many quarters, and always,
believe me, with pleasure, on your father's account, and on your own.'

"Next day I found on my table when I came from the courts, the count's
card--when I returned his visit, Commissioner Falconer was with him in
close converse--confirmed by this in opinion that Lord Oldborough is
sucking information--I mean, political secrets--out of the count. The
commissioner could not, in common decency, help being 'exceedingly sorry
that he and Mrs. Falconer had seen so little of me of late,' nor could he
well avoid asking me to a concert, to which he invited the count, for the
ensuing evening. As the count promised to go, so did I, on purpose to meet
him. Adieu, dearest Caroline.

"Most affectionately yours,

"ALFRED PERCY."

To give an account of Mrs. Falconer's concert in fashionable style, we
should inform the public that Dr. Mudge for ever established his fame
in "_Buds of Roses_;" and Miss La Grande was astonishing, absolutely
astonishing, in "_Frenar vorrei le lagrime_"--quite in Catalani's best
manner; but Miss Georgiana Falconer was divine in "_O Giove omnipotente_,"
and quite surpassed herself in "_Quanto O quanto  amor possente_," in
which Dr. Mudge was also capital: indeed it would be doing injustice to
this gentleman's powers not to acknowledge the universality of his genius.

Perhaps our readers may not feel quite satisfied with this general
eulogium, and may observe, that all this might have been learnt from the
newspapers of the day. Then we must tell things plainly and simply, but
this will not sound nearly so grand, and letting the public behind the
scenes will destroy all the stage effect and illusion. Alfred Percy went
to Mrs. Falconer's unfashionably early, in hopes that, as Count Altenberg
dined there, he might have a quarter of an hour's conversation with him
before the musical party should assemble. In this hope Alfred was mistaken.
He found in the great drawing-room only Mrs. Falconer and two other
ladies, whose names he never heard, standing round the fire; the unknown
ladies were in close and eager converse about Count Altenberg. "He is
so handsome--so polite--so charming!"--"He is very rich--has immense
possessions abroad, has not he?"--"Certainly, he has a fine estate in
Yorkshire."--"But when did he come to England?"--"How long does he
stay?"--"15,000_l._, no, 20,000_l._ per annum."--"Indeed!"--"Mrs. Falconer,
has not Count Altenberg 20,000_l._ a year?"

Mrs. Falconer, seemingly uninterested, stood silent, looking through her
glass at the man who was lighting the argand lamps. "Really, my dear,"
answered she, "I can't say--I know nothing of Count Altenberg--Take care!
that argand!--He's quite a stranger to us--the commissioner met him at Lord
Oldborough's, and on Lord Oldborough's account, of course--Vigor, we must
have more light, Vigor--wishes to pay him attention--But here's Mr. Percy,"
continued she, turning to Alfred, "can, I dare say, tell you all about
these things. I think the commissioner mentioned that it was you, Mr.
Percy, who introduced the Count to Lord Oldborough."

The ladies immediately fixed their surprised and inquiring eyes upon
Mr. Alfred Percy--he seemed to grow in an instant several feet in their
estimation: but he shrunk again when he acknowledged that he had merely
met Count Altenberg accidentally at Greenwich--that he knew nothing of the
count's estate in Yorkshire, or of his foreign possessions, and was utterly
incompetent to decide whether he had 10,000_l._ or 20,000_l._ per annum.

"That's very odd!" said one of the ladies. "But this much I know, that he
is passionately fond of music, for he told me so at dinner."

"Then I am sure he will be charmed to-night with Miss Georgiana," said the
confidants.

"But what signifies that," replied the other lady, "if he has not--"

"Mr. Percy," interrupted Mrs. Falconer, "I have never seen you since that
sad affair of Lady Harriot H---- and Lewis Clay;" and putting her arm
within Alfred's, she walked him away, talking over the affair, and throwing
in a proper proportion of compliment. As she reached the folding doors, at
the farthest end of the room, she opened them.

"I have a notion the young people are here." She introduced him into the
music-room. Miss Georgiana Falconer, at the piano-forte, with performers,
composers, masters, and young ladies, all with music-books round her,
sat high in consultation, which Alfred's appearance interrupted--a faint
struggle to be civil--an insipid question or two was addressed to him.
"Fond of music, Mr. Percy? Captain Percy, I think, likes music? You expect
Captain Percy home soon?"

Scarcely listening to his answers, the young ladies soon resumed their own
conversation, forgot his existence, and went on eagerly with their own
affairs.

As they turned over their music-books, Alfred, for some minutes, heard only
the names of La Tour, Winter, Von Esch, Lanza, Portogallo, Mortellari,
Guglielmi, Sacchini, Sarti, Paisiello, pronounced by male and female voices
in various tones of ecstasy and of execration. Then there was an eager
search for certain favourite duets, trios, and sets of _cavatinas_. Next he
heard, in rapid succession, the names of Tenducci, Pachierotti, Marchesi,
Viganoni, Braham, Gabrielli, Mara, Banti, Grassini, Billington, Catalani.
Imagine our young barrister's sense of his profound ignorance, whilst he
heard the merits of all dead and living composers, singers, and masters,
decided upon by the Miss Falconers. By degrees he began to see a little
through the palpable obscure, by which he had at first felt himself
surrounded: he discerned that he was in a committee of the particular
friends of the Miss Falconers, who were settling what they should sing and
play. All, of course, were flattering the Miss Falconers, and abusing their
absent friends, those especially who were expected to bear a part in this
concert; for instance--"Those two eternal Miss Byngs, with voices, like
cracked bells, and with their old-fashioned music, Handel, Corelli, and
Pergolese, horrid!--And odious little Miss Crotch, who has science but
no taste, execution but no expression!" Here they talked a vast deal
about expression. Alfred did not understand them, and doubted whether
they understood themselves. "Then her voice! how people can call it
fine!--powerful, if you will--but overpowering! For my part, I can't stand
it, can you?--Every body knows an artificial shake, when good, is far
superior to a natural shake. As to the Miss Barhams, the eldest has no more
ear than the table, and the youngest such a thread of a voice!"

"But, mamma," interrupted Miss Georgiana Falconer, "are the Miss La Grandes
to be here to-night?"

"Certainly, my dear--you know I could not avoid asking the Miss La
Grandes."

"Then, positively," cried Miss Georgiana, her whole face changing, and
ill-humour swelling in every feature, "then, positively, ma'am, I can't and
won't sing a note!"

"Why, my dear love," said Mrs. Falconer, "surely you don't pretend to be
afraid of the Miss La Grandes?"

"You!" cried one of the chorus of flatterers--"You! to whom the La Grandes
are no more to be compared--"

"Not but that they certainly sing finely, I am told," said Mrs. Falconer;
"yet I can't say I like their style of singing--and knowledge of music, you
know, they don't pretend to."

"Why, that's true," said Miss Georgiana; "but still, somehow, I can never
bring out my voice before those girls. If I have any voice at all, it is in
the lower part, and Miss La Grande always chooses the lower part--besides,
ma'am, you know she regularly takes '_O Giove omnipotente_' from me. But
I should not mind _that_ even, if she would not attempt poor '_Quanto O
quanto  amor possente_'--there's no standing that! Now, really, to hear
that so spoiled by Miss La Grande--"

"Hush! my dear," said Mrs. Falconer, just as Mrs. La Grande appeared--"Oh!
my good Mrs. La Grande, how kind is this of you to come to me with your
poor head! And Miss La Grande and Miss Eliza! We are so much obliged to
you, for you know that we could not have done without you."

The Miss La Grandes were soon followed by the Miss Barhams and Miss Crotch,
and they were all "_so good, and so kind, and such dear creatures_." But
after the first forced compliments, silence and reserve spread among the
young ladies of the Miss Falconers' party. It was evident that the fair
professors were mutually afraid and envious of each other, and there was
little prospect of harmony of temper. At length the gentlemen arrived.
Count Altenberg appeared, and came up to pay his compliments to the Miss
Falconers: as he had not been behind the scenes, all was charming illusion
to his eyes. No one could appear more good-humoured, agreeable, and amiable
than Miss Georgiana; she was in delightful spirits, well dressed, and
admirably supported by her mother. The concert began. But who can describe
the anxiety of the rival mothers, each in agonies to have their daughters
brought forward and exhibited to the best advantage! Some grew pale, some
red--all, according to their different powers of self-command and address,
endeavoured to conceal their feelings. Mrs. Falconer now shone superior in
ease inimitable. She appeared absolutely unconcerned for her own daughter,
quite intent upon bringing into notice the talents of the Miss Barhams,
Miss Crotch, the Miss La Grandes, &c.

These young ladies in their turn knew and practised the various arts by
which at a musical party the unfortunate mistress of the house may be
tormented. Some, who were sensible that the company were anxious for their
performance, chose to be "_quite out of voice_," till they had been pressed
and flattered into acquiescence; one sweet bashful creature must absolutely
be forced to the instrument, as a new speaker of the House of Commons
was formerly dragged to the chair. Then the instrument was not what one
young lady was _used to_; the lights were so placed that another who was
near-sighted could not see a note--another could not endure such a glare.
One could not sing unless the windows were all open--another could not
play unless they were all shut. With perfect complaisance Mrs. Falconer
ordered the windows to be opened and shut, and again shut and opened; with
admirable patience she was, or seemed to be, the martyr to the caprices
of the fair musicians. While all the time she so manoeuvred as to divide,
and govern, and finally to have every thing arranged as she pleased. None
but a perfectly cool stander-by, and one previously acquainted with Mrs.
Falconer's character, could have seen all that Alfred saw. Perhaps the
interest he began to take about Count Altenberg, who was the grand object
of all her operations, increased his penetration. While the count was
engaged in earnest political conversation in one of the inner rooms with
the commissioner, Mrs. Falconer besought the Miss La Grandes to favour the
company. It was impossible for them to resist her polite entreaties. Next
she called upon Miss Crotch, and the Miss Barhams; and she contrived that
they should sing and play, and play and sing, till they had exhausted the
admiration and complaisance of the auditors. Then she relieved attention
with some slight things from Miss Arabella Falconer, such as could excite
no _sensation_ or envy. Presently, after walking about the room, carelessly
joining different conversation parties, and saying something obliging to
each, she approached the count and the commissioner. Finding that the
commissioner had finished all he had to say, she began to reproach him
for keeping the count so long from the ladies, and leading him, as she
spoke, to the piano-forte, she declared that he had missed such charming
things. She _could_ not ask Miss Crotch to play any more till she had
rested--"Georgiana! for want of something better, do try what you can give
us--She will appear to great disadvantage, of course--My dear, I think we
have not had _O Giove omnipotente_."

"I am not equal to that, ma'am," said Georgiana, drawing back: "you should
call upon Miss La Grande."

"True, my love; but Miss La Grande has been so very obliging, I could not
ask--Try it, my love--I am not surprised you should be diffident after what
we have heard; but the count, I am sure, will make allowances."

With amiable and becoming diffidence Miss Georgiana was compelled to
comply--the count was surprised and charmed by her voice: then she was
prevailed upon to try "_Quanta O quanto  amor possente_"--the count,
who was enthusiastically fond of music, seemed quite enchanted; and Mrs.
Falconer took care that he should have this impression left full and strong
upon his mind--supper was announced. The count was placed at the table
between Mrs. Falconer and Lady Trant--but just as they were sitting down,
Mrs. Falconer called to Georgiana, who was going, much against her will, to
another table, "Take my place, my dear Georgiana, for you know I never eat
supper."

Georgiana's countenance, which had been black as night, became all radiant
instantly. She took her mamma's place beside the count. Mrs. Falconer
walked about all supper-time smiling, and saying obliging things with
self-satisfied grace. She had reason indeed to be satisfied with the
success of this night's operations. Never once did she appear to look
towards the count, or her daughter; but assuredly she saw that things were
going on as she wished.

In the mean time Alfred Percy was as heartily tired by the exhibitions of
this evening as were many fashionable young men who had been loud in their
praises of the performers. Perhaps Alfred was not however a perfectly
fair judge, as he was disappointed in his own manoeuvres, not having
been able to obtain two minutes' conversation with the count during the
whole evening. In a letter to Rosamond, the next day, he said that Mrs.
Falconer's concert had been very dull, and he observed that "People can see
more of one another in a single day in the country than they can in a year
in town." He was further very eloquent "on the folly of meeting in crowds
to say commonplace nothings to people you do not care for, and to see only
the outsides of those with whom you desire to converse."

"Just as I was writing this sentence," continues Alfred, "Count Altenberg
called--how fortunate!--how obliging of him to come so early, before I
went to the courts. He has put me into good humour again with the whole
world--even with the Miss Falconers. He came to take leave of me--he is
going down to the country--with whom do you think?--With Lord Oldborough,
during the recess. Did I not tell you that Lord Oldborough would like
him--that is, would find that he has information, and can be useful? I hope
you will all see the count; indeed I am sure you will. He politely spoke of
paying his respects to my father, by whom the shipwrecked foreigners had
been so hospitably succoured in their distress. I told him that our family
no longer lived in the same place; that we had been obliged to retire to
a small estate, in a distant part of the county. I did not trouble him
with the history of our family misfortunes; nor did I even mention how
the shipwreck, and the carelessness of the Dutch sailors, had occasioned
the fire at Percy Hall--though I was tempted to tell him this when I was
speaking of M. de Tourville.

"I forgot to tell my father, that the morning when I went with the count
to Lord Oldborough's, among a heap of books of heraldry, with which his
table was covered, I spied an old book of my father's on the _arte_ of
deciphering, which he had lent Commissioner Falconer years ago. Lord
Oldborough, whose eye is quick as a hawk's, saw my eye turn towards it, and
he asked me if I knew any thing of that book, or of the art of deciphering?
Nothing of the art, but something of the book, which I recollected to be
my father's. His lordship put it into my hands, and I showed some pencil
notes of my father's writing. Lord Oldborough seemed surprised, and said
he did not know this had been among the number of your studies. I told him
that you had once been much intent upon Wilkins and Leibnitz's scheme of
a universal language, and that I believed this had led you to the art of
deciphering. He repeated the words 'Universal language--Ha!--then I suppose
it was from Mr. Percy that Commissioner Falconer learnt all he knew on this
subject?'

"'I believe so, my lord.'

"'Ha!' He seemed lost for a moment in thought, and then added, 'I wish I
had known this sooner--Ha!'

"What these _Haes_ meant, I was unable to decipher; but I am sure they
related to some matter very interesting to him. He explained himself no
farther, but immediately turned away from me to the count, and began to
talk of the affairs of his court, and of M. de Tourville, of whom he
seems to have some knowledge, I suppose through the means of his envoy,
Cunningham Falconer.

"I understand that a prodigious party is invited to Falconer-court. The
count asked me if I was to be one of them, and seemed to wish it--I like
him much. They are to have balls, and plays, and great doings. If I have
time, I will write _to-morrow_, and tell you who goes, and give you a
sketch of their characters. Mrs. Falconer cannot well avoid asking you to
some of her entertainments, and it will be pleasant to you to know who's
who beforehand."




CHAPTER XXIV.


Notwithstanding all the patronage of fashion, which the Miss Falconers
had for some time enjoyed, notwithstanding all their own accomplishments,
and their mother's address and knowledge of the world, the grand object
had not been obtained--for they were not married. Though every where
seen, and every where admired, no proposals had yet been made adequate to
their expectations. In vain had one young nobleman after another, heir
apparent after heir apparent, been invited, cherished, and flattered by
Mrs. Falconer, had been constantly at her balls and concerts, had stood
beside the harp and the piano-forte, had danced or flirted with the Miss
Falconers, had been hung out at all public places as a pendant to one or
other of the sisters.

The mother, seeing project after project fail for the establishment of
her daughters, forced to bear and to conceal these disappointments, still
continued to form new schemes with indefatigable perseverance. Yet every
season the difficulty increased; and Mrs. Falconer, in the midst of the
life of pleasure which she seemed to lead, was a prey to perpetual anxiety.
She knew that if any thing should happen to the commissioner, whose health
was declining; if he should lose Lord Oldborough's favour, which seemed not
impossible; if Lord Oldborough should not be able to maintain himself in
power, or if he should die; she and her daughters would lose every thing.
From a small estate, overwhelmed with debt, there would be no fortune for
her daughters; they would be left utterly destitute, and absolutely unable
to do any thing for themselves--unlikely to suit plain country gentlemen,
after the high style of company in which they had lived, and still more
incapable than she would be of bearing a reverse of fortune. The young
ladies, confident of their charms, unaccustomed to reflect, and full of the
present, thought little of these probabilities of future evil, though they
were quite as impatient to be married as their mother could wish. Indeed,
this impatience becoming visible, she was rather anxious to suppress it,
because it counteracted her views. Mrs. Falconer had still two schemes for
their establishment. Sir Robert Percy had luckily lost his wife within the
last twelvemonth, had no children, and had been heard to declare that he
would marry again as soon as he decently could, because, if he were to die
without heirs, the Percy estate might revert to the relations, whom he
detested. Mrs. Falconer had persuaded the commissioner to cultivate Sir
Robert Percy's acquaintance; had this winter watched for the time when law
business called him to town; had prevailed upon him to go to her house,
instead of staying, as he usually did, at an hotel, or spending his day at
his solicitor's chambers. She had in short made things so agreeable to him,
and he seemed so well pleased with her, she had hopes he would in time be
brought to propose for her daughter Arabella. To conciliate Sir Robert
Percy, it was necessary to avoid all connexion with _the other Percys_; and
it was for this reason that the commissioner had of late avoided Alfred and
Erasmus. Mrs. Falconer's schemes for Georgiana, her beautiful daughter,
were far more brilliant. Several great establishments she had in view.
The appearance of Count Altenberg put many old visions to flight--her
whole fancy fixed upon him. If she could marry her Georgiana to Count
Altenberg!--There would be a match high as her most exalted ambition could
desire; and this project did not seem impossible. The count had been heard
to say that he thought Miss Georgiana Falconer the handsomest woman he
had seen since he had been in London. He had admired her dancing, and had
listened with enthusiastic attention to her music, and to her charming
voice; the young lady herself was confident that he was, would be, or ought
to be, her slave. The count was going into the country for some weeks with
Lord Oldborough. Mrs. Falconer, though she had not seen Falconer-court
for fifteen years, decided to go there immediately. Then she should have
the count fairly away from all the designing mothers and rival daughters
of her acquaintance, and besides--she might, by this seasonable visit
to the country, secure Sir Robert Percy for her daughter Arabella. The
commissioner rejoiced in his lady's determination, because he knew that it
would afford him an opportunity of obliging Lord Oldborough. His lordship
had always been averse from the trouble of entertaining company. He
disliked it still more since the death of Lady Oldborough; but he knew that
it was necessary to keep up his interest and his popularity in the country,
and he would, therefore, be obliged by Mrs. Falconer's giving dinners
and entertainments for him. This game had succeeded, when it had been
played--at the time of the Marchioness of Twickenham's marriage. Mr.
Falconer was particularly anxious now to please Lord Oldborough, for he was
fully aware that he had lost ground with his patron, and that his sons had
all in different ways given his lordship cause of dissatisfaction. With
Buckhurst Falconer Lord Oldborough was displeased for being the companion
and encourager of his nephew, Colonel Hauton, in extravagance and gaming.
In paying his court to the nephew, Buckhurst lost the uncle. Lord
Oldborough had hoped that a man of literature and talents, as Buckhurst had
been represented to him, would have drawn his nephew from the turf to the
senate, and would have raised in Colonel Hauton's mind some noble ambition.

"A clergyman! sir," said Lord Oldborough to Commissioner Falconer, with
a look of austere indignation.--"What could induce such a man as Mr.
Buckhurst Falconer to become a clergyman?" The commissioner, affecting to
sympathize in this indignation, declared that he was so angry with his son
that he would not see him. All the time, however, he comforted himself
with the hope that his son would, in a few months, be in possession of
the long-expected living of Chipping-Friars, as the old incumbent was now
speechless. Lord Oldborough had never, after this disowning of Buckhurst,
mentioned his name to the father, and the commissioner thought this
management had succeeded.

Of John Falconer, too, there had been complaints. Officers returned
from abroad had spoken of his stupidity, his neglect of duty, and, above
all, of his boasting that, let him do what he pleased, he was sure
of Lord Oldborough's favour--certain of being a major in one year, a
lieutenant-colonel in two. At first his boasts had been laughed at by
his brother officers, but when, at the year's end, he actually was made a
major, their surprise and discontent were great. Lord Oldborough was blamed
for patronizing such a fellow. All this, in course of time, came to his
lordship's knowledge. He heard these complaints in silence. It was not
his habit suddenly to express his displeasure. He heard, and saw, without
speaking or acting, till facts and proofs had accumulated in his mind. He
seemed to pass over many things unobserved, but they were all registered
in his memory, and he would judge and decide at last in an instant, and
irrevocably. Of this Commissioner Falconer, a cunning man, who watched
parts of a character narrowly, but could not take in the whole, was
not aware. He often blessed his good fortune for having escaped Lord
Oldborough's displeasure or detection, upon occasions when his lordship had
marked all that the commissioner imagined he had overlooked; his lordship
was often most awake to what was passing, and most displeased, when he
appeared most absent or unmoved.

For instance, many mistakes, and much ignorance, had frequently appeared in
his envoy Cunningham Falconer's despatches; but except when, in the first
moment of surprise at the difference between the ineptitude of the envoy,
and the talents of the author of the pamphlet, his lordship had exclaimed,
"_A slovenly despatch_," these mistakes, and this ignorance, had passed
without animadversion. Some symptoms of duplicity, some evasion of the
minister's questions, had likewise appeared, and the commissioner had
trembled lest the suspicions of his patron should be awakened.

Count Altenberg, without design to injure Cunningham, had accidentally
mentioned in the presence of the commissioner and of Lord Oldborough
something of a transaction which was to be kept a profound secret from the
minister, a private intrigue which Cunningham had been carrying on to get
himself appointed envoy to the court of Denmark, by the interest of the
opposite party, in case of a change of ministry. At the moment when this
was alluded to by Count Altenberg, the commissioner was so dreadfully
alarmed that he perspired at every pore; but perceiving that Lord
Oldborough expressed no surprise, asked no explanation, never looked
towards him with suspicion, nor even raised his eyes, Mr. Falconer
flattered himself that his lordship was so completely engrossed in the
operation of replacing a loose glass in his spectacles, that he had not
heard or noticed one word the count had said. In this hope the commissioner
was confirmed by Lord Oldborough's speaking an instant afterwards precisely
in his usual tone, and pursuing his previous subject of conversation,
without any apparent interruption in the train of his ideas. Yet,
notwithstanding that the commissioner fancied that he and his son had
escaped, and were secure in each particular instance, he had a general
feeling that Lord Oldborough was more reserved towards him; and he
was haunted by a constant fear of losing, not his patron's esteem or
confidence, but his favour. Against this danger he constantly guarded. To
flatter, to keep Lord Oldborough in good humour, to make himself agreeable
and necessary by continual petty submissions and services, was the sum of
his policy.

It was with this view that he determined to go into the country; and with
this view he had consented to various expenses, which were necessary, as
Mrs. Falconer declared, to make it practicable for her and her daughters
to accompany him. Orders were sent to have a theatre at Falconer-court,
which had been long disused, fitted up in the most elegant manner. The
Miss Falconers had been in the habit of acting at Sir Thomas and Lady
Flowerton's private theatre at Richmond, and they were accomplished
actresses. Count Altenberg had declared that he was particularly fond of
theatrical amusements. That hint was sufficient. Besides, what a sensation
the opening of a theatre at Falconer-court would create in the country!
Mrs. Falconer observed that the only possible way to make the country
supportable was to have a large party of town friends in your house--and
this was the more necessary for her, as she was almost a stranger in her
own county.

Alfred kept his promise, and sent Rosamond a list of the persons of whom
the party was to consist. Opposite to several names he wrote--commonplace
young--or, commonplace old ladies:--of the latter number were Lady Trant
and Lady Kew: of the former were the Miss G----s, and others not worth
mentioning. Then came the two Lady Arlingtons, nieces of the Duke of
Greenwich.

"The Lady Arlingtons," continues Alfred, "are glad to get to Mrs. Falconer,
and Mrs. Falconer is glad to have them, because they are related to my lord
duke. I have met them at Mrs. Falconer's, at Lady Angelica Headingham's,
and often at Lady Jane Granville's. The style and tone of the Lady Anne is
languishing--of Lady Frances, lively: both seem mere spoilt selfish ladies
of quality. Lady Anne's selfishness is of the cold, chronic, inveterate
nature; Lady Frances' of the hot, acute, and tormenting species. She 'loves
everything by fits, and nothing long.' Every body is _an angel_ and _a dear
creature_, while they minister to her fancies--and no longer. About these
fancies she is restless and impatient to a degree which makes her sister
look sick and scornful beyond description. Lady Anne neither fancies nor
loves any thing or any body. She seems to have no object upon earth but
to drink barley-water, and save herself from all manner of trouble or
exertion, bodily or mental. So much for the Lady Arlingtons.

"Buckhurst Falconer cannot be of this party--Colonel Hauton has him at his
regiment. But Buckhurst's two friends, the Clays, are earnestly pressed
into the service. Notwithstanding the fine sanctified speech Mrs. Falconer
made me, about _that sad affair of Lewis Clay with Lady Harriot H----_, she
invites him; and I have a notion, if Count Altenberg had not appeared, that
she would have liked to have had him, _or_ his brother, for her son-in-law.
That you may judge how much my mother would like them for her sons-in-law,
I will take the trouble to draw you portraits of both gentlemen.

"_French_ Clay and _English_ Clay, as they have been named, are brothers,
both men of large fortune, which their father acquired respectably by
commerce, and which they are spending in all kinds of extravagance and
profligacy, not from inclination, but merely to purchase admission into
fine company. French Clay is a travelled coxcomb, who, _ propos de
bottes_, begins with, 'When I was abroad with the Princess Orbitella--'
But I am afraid I cannot speak of this man with impartiality, for I cannot
bear to see an Englishman apeing a Frenchman. The imitation is always so
awkward, so ridiculous, so contemptible. French Clay talks of _tact_, but
without possessing any; he delights in what he calls _persiflage_, but in
his _persiflage_, instead of the wit and elegance of Parisian raillery,
there appears only the vulgar love and habit of derision. He is continually
railing at our English want of _savoir vivre_, yet is himself an example
of the ill-breeding which he reprobates. His manners have neither the
cordiality of an Englishman nor the polish of a foreigner. To improve us
in _l'esprit de socit_, he would introduce the whole system of French
gallantry--the vice without the refinement. I heard him acknowledge it to
be 'his principle' to intrigue with every _married_ woman who would listen
to him, provided she has any one of his four requisites, wit, fashion,
beauty, or a good table. He says his late suit in Doctors'-commons cost him
nothing; for 10,000_l._ are nothing to him.

"Public virtue, as well as private, he thinks it a fine air to disdain,
and patriotism and love of our country, he calls prejudices of which a
philosopher ought to divest himself. Some charitable people say that he is
not so unfeeling as he seems to be, and that above half his vices arise
from affectation, and from a mistaken ambition to be what he thinks
perfectly French.

"His brother, English Clay, is a cold, reserved, proud, dull-looking man,
whom art, in despite of nature, strove, and strove in vain, to quicken
into a 'gay deceiver.' He is a grave man of pleasure--his first care being
to provide for his exclusively personal gratifications. His dinner is a
serious, solemn business, whether it be at his own table or at a tavern,
which last he prefers--he orders it so that his repast shall be the very
best of its kind that money can procure. His next care is, that he be not
cheated in what he is to pay. Not that he values money, but he cannot bear
to be _taken in_. Then his dress, his horses his whole appointment and
establishment, are complete, and accurately in the fashion of the day--no
expense spared. All that belongs to Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, is the best of
its kind, or, at least, _had from the best hand_ in England. Every thing
about him is English; but I don't know whether this arises from love of his
country or contempt of his brother. English Clay is not ostentatious of
that which is his own, but he is disdainful of all that belongs to another.
The slightest deficiency in the _appointments_ of his companions he sees,
and marks by a wink to some bystander, or with a dry joke laughs the wretch
to scorn. In company he delights to sit by silent and snug, sneering
inwardly at those who are entertaining the company, and _committing_
themselves. He never entertains, and is seldom entertained. His joys
are neither convivial nor intellectual; he is gregarious, but not
companionable; a hard drinker, but not social. Wine sometimes makes him
noisy, but never makes him gay; and, whatever be his excesses, he commits
them seemingly without temptation from taste or passion. He keeps a
furiously expensive mistress, whom he curses, and who curses him, as
Buckhurst informs me, ten times a day; yet he prides himself on being free
and unmarried! Scorning and dreading women in general, he swears he would
not marry Venus herself unless she had 100,000_l._ in each pocket; and now
that no mortal Venus wears pockets, he thanks Heaven he is safe. Buckhurst,
I remember, assured me that beneath this crust of pride there is some
good-nature. Deep hid under a large mass of selfishness there may be some
glimmerings of affection. He shows symptoms of feeling for his horses, and
his mother, and his coachman, and his country. I do believe he would fight
for old England, for it is his country, and he is English Clay. Affection
for his coachman, did I say?--He shows admiration, if not affection, for
every whip of note in town. He is their companion--no, their pupil, and, as
Antoninus Pius gratefully prided himself in recording the names of those
relations and friends from whom he learnt his several virtues, this man may
boast to after-ages of having learnt from one coachman how to cut a fly off
his near leader's ear, how to tuck up a duck from another, and the _true
spit_ from a third--by-the-bye, it is said, but I don't vouch for the truth
of the story, that this last accomplishment cost him a tooth, which he had
had drawn to attain it in perfection. Pure _slang_ he could not learn from
any one coachman, but from constantly frequenting the society of all. I
recollect Buckhurst Falconer telling me that he dined once with English
Clay, in company with a baronet, a viscount, an earl, a duke, and the
driver of a mail-coach, to whom was given, by acclamation, the seat of
honour. I am told there is a house, at which these gentlemen and noblemen
meet regularly every week, where there are two dining-rooms divided by
glass doors. In one room the real coachmen dined, in the other the amateur
gentlemen, who, when they are tired of their own conversation, throw open
the glass doors, that they may be entertained and edified by the coachmen's
wit and _slang_; in which dialect English Clay's rapid proficiency has, it
is said, recommended him to the _best_ society, even more than his being
the master of the best of cooks, and of Clay-hall.

"I have said so much more than I intended of both these brothers, that I
have no room for more portraits; indeed, the other gentlemen are zeros.

"Yours affectionately,

"ALFRED PERCY."

Notwithstanding the pains which Mrs. Falconer took to engage these Mr.
Clays to accompany her, she could obtain only a promise that they would
wait upon her, if possible, some time during the recess.

Count Altenberg also, much to Mrs. Falconer's disappointment, was detained
in town a few days longer than he had foreseen, but he promised to follow
Lord Oldborough early in the ensuing week. All the rest of the _prodigious_
party arrived at Falconer-court, which was within a few miles of Lord
Oldborough's seat at Clermont-park.

The day after Lord Oldborough's arrival in the country, his lordship was
seized with a fit of the gout, which fixed in his right hand. Commissioner
Falconer, when he came in the morning to pay his respects, and to inquire
after his patron's health, found him in his study, writing a letter with
his left hand. "My lord, shall not I call Mr. Temple--or--could I offer my
services as secretary?"

"I thank you, sir--no. This letter must be written with my own hand."

Whom can this letter be to, that is of so much consequence? thought the
commissioner; and glancing his eye at the direction, he saw, as the letter
was given to a servant, "_To L. Percy, Esq._"--his surprise arrested
the pinch of snuff which he was just going to take. "What could be the
business--the secret--only a few lines, what could they contain?"

Simply these words

"MY DEAR SIR,

"I write to you with my left hand, the gout having, within these few hours,
incapacitated my right. Since this gout keeps me a prisoner, and I cannot,
as I had intended, go to you, may I beg that you will do me the favour to
come to me, if it could suit your convenience, to-morrow morning, when I
shall be alone from twelve till four.

"With true esteem,

"Yours,

"OLDBOROUGH."

In the course of the day the commissioner found out, by something Lord
Oldborough _let fall_, what his lordship had no intention to conceal, that
he had requested Mr. Percy to come to Clermont-park the next morning; and
the commissioner promised himself that he would be in the way to see his
good cousin Percy, and to satisfy his curiosity. But his manoeuvres and
windings were, whenever it was necessary, counteracted and cut short by the
unexpected directness and peremptory plain dealing of his patron. In the
morning, towards the hour of twelve, the commissioner thought he had well
begun a conversation that would draw out into length upon a topic which he
knew must be interesting to his lordship, and he held in his hand private
letters of great consequence from his son Cunningham; but Lord Oldborough,
taking the letters, locked them up in his desk, saying, "To-night I will
read them--this morning I have set apart for a conversation with Mr. Percy,
whom I wish to see alone. In the mean time, my interest in the borough has
been left too much to the care of that attorney Sharpe, of whom I have no
great opinion. Will you be so good to ride over, as you promised me that
you would, to the borough, and see what is doing there?"

The commissioner endeavoured not to look disconcerted or discomfited,
rang the bell for his horses, and took his leave, as Lord Oldborough had
determined that he should, before the arrival of Mr. Percy, who came
exactly at twelve.

"I thank you for this punctuality, Mr. Percy," said Lord Oldborough,
advancing in his most gracious manner; and no two things could be more
strikingly different than his gracious and ungracious manner. "I thank you
for this kind punctuality. No one knows better than I do the difference
between the visit of a friend and all other visits."

Without preface, Lord Oldborough always went directly to the point. "I have
requested you to come to me, Mr. Percy, because I want from you two things,
which I cannot have so much to my satisfaction from any other person as
from you--assistance and sympathy. But, before I go to my own affairs,
let me--and not by way of compliment, but plainly and truly--let me
congratulate you, my dear sir, on the success of your sons, on the
distinction and independence they have already acquired in their
professions. I know the value of independence--of that which I shall never
have," added his lordship, with a forced smile and a deep sigh. "But let
that be. It was not of that I meant to speak. You pursue your course; I,
mine. Firmness of purpose I take to be the great difference between man and
man. I am not one of those who habitually covet sympathy. It is a sign of a
mind insufficient to its own support, to look for sympathy on every trivial
occurrence; and on great occasions it has not been my good fortune to meet
many persons who could sympathize with me."

"True," said Mr. Percy, "people must think with you, before they can feel
with you."

"It is extraordinary, Mr. Percy," continued Lord Oldborough, "that, knowing
how widely you differ from me in political principles, I should choose,
of all men living, to open my mind to you. But the fact is, that I am
convinced, however we may differ about the means, the end we both have in
view is one and the same--the good and glory of the British empire."

"My lord, I believe it," cried Mr. Percy--with energy and warmth he
repeated, "My lord, I believe it."

"I thank you, sir," said Lord Oldborough; "you do me justice. I have reason
to be satisfied when such men as you do me justice; I have reason also
to be satisfied that I have not to make the common complaint of those
who serve princes. From him whom I have served I have not met with any
ingratitude, with any neglect: on the contrary, I am well assured, that so
firm is his conviction of my intending the good of his throne and of his
people, that to preserve me his minister is the first wish of his heart. I
am confident that without hesitation he would dismiss from his councils any
who should obstruct my views, or be inimical to my interests."

"Then, my lord, you are happy; if man can be happy at the summit of
ambition."

"Pardon me. It is a dizzy height at best; but, were it attained, I trust my
head would be strong enough to bear it."

"Lord Verulam, you know, my lord," said Mr. Percy, smiling, "tells us, that
people, by looking down precipices, do put their spirits in the act of
falling."

"True, true," said Lord Oldborough, rather impatient at Mr. Percy's going
to Lord Verulam and philosophy. "But you have not yet heard the facts.
I am encompassed with enemies, open and secret. Open enemies I meet and
defy--their strength I can calculate and oppose; but the strength of my
secret enemies I cannot calculate, for that strength depends on their
combination, and that combination I cannot break till I know of what it
consists. I have the power and the will to strike, but know not where to
aim. In the dark I will not strike, lest I injure the innocent or destroy
a friend. Light I cannot obtain, though I have been in search of it for a
considerable time. Perhaps by your assistance it may be obtained."

"By my assistance!" exclaimed Mr. Percy: "ignorant, as I am, of all
parties, and of all their secret transactions, how, my dear lord, can I
possibly afford you any assistance?"

"Precisely by your being unconnected with all parties--a cool stander-by,
you can judge of the play--you can assist me with your general knowledge of
human nature, and with a particular species of knowledge, of which I should
never have guessed that you were possessed, but for an accidental discovery
of it made to me the other day by your son Alfred--your knowledge of the
art of deciphering."

Lord Oldborough then produced the Tourville papers, related how they had
been put into his hands by Commissioner Falconer, showed him what the
commissioner and his son had deciphered, pointed out where the remaining
difficulty occurred, and explained how they were completely at a stand from
their inability to decipher the word Gassoc, or to decide who or what it
could mean. All the conjectures of the commissioner, the cassock, and the
bishop, and the _gosshawk_, and the heraldic researches, and the French
misnomers, and the puns upon the coats of arms, and the notes from Wilkins
on universal language, and an old book on deciphering, which had been lent
to the commissioner, and the private and public letters which Cunningham
had written since he went abroad, were all laid before Mr. Percy.

"As to my envoy, Mr. Cunningham Falconer," said Lord Oldborough, as he took
up the bundle of Cunningham's letters, "I do not choose to interrupt the
main business before us, by adverting to him or to his character, farther
than to point out to you this mark," showing a peculiar pencil mark, made
on certain papers. "This is my note of distrust, observe, and this my note
for mere circumlocution, or nonsense. And here," continued his lordship,
"is a list of all those in, or connected with the ministry, whom it is
possible may be my enemies." The list was the same as that on which the
commissioner formerly went to work, except that the name of the Duke of
Greenwich had been struck out, and two others added in his place, so that
it stood thus: "Dukes of Doncaster and Stratford; Lords Coleman, Naresby,
Skreene, Twisselton, Waltham, Wrexfield, Chelsea, and Lancaster; Sir Thomas
Cope, Sir James Skipworth; Secretaries Arnold and Oldfield." This list was
marked with figures, in different coloured inks, prefixed to each name,
denoting the degrees of their supposed enmity to Lord Oldborough, and these
had been calculated from a paper, containing notes of the probable causes
and motives of their disaffection, drawn up by Commissioner Falconer, but
corrected, and in many places contradicted, by notes in Lord Oldborough's
hand-writing. His lordship marked which was _his_ calculation of
probabilities, and made some observations on the character of each, as he
read over the list of names rapidly.

Doncaster, a dunce--Stratford, a miser--Coleman, a knave--Naresby, non
compos--Skreene, the most corrupt of the corrupt--Twisselton, puzzle
headed--Waltham, a mere theorist--Wrexfield, a speechifier--Chelsea, a
trimmer--Lancaster, deep and dark--Sir Thomas Cope, a wit, a poet, and
a fool--Sir James Skipworth, finance and finesse--Arnold, able and
active--and Oldfield, a diplomatist in grain.

"And is this the summary of the history of the men with whom your lordship
is obliged to act and live?" said Mr. Percy.

"It is--I am: but, my dear sir, do not let us fly off at a tangent to
morality or philosophy; these have nothing to do with the present purpose.
You have before you all the papers relative to this transaction. Now, will
you do me the favour, the service, to look them over, and try whether you
can make out _le mot d'nigme_? I shall not disturb you."

Lord Oldborough sat down at a small table by the fire, with a packet of
letters and memorials beside him, and in a few minutes was completely
absorbed in these, for he had acquired the power of turning his attention
suddenly and entirely from one subject to another.

Without reading the mass of Commissioner Falconer's explanations and
conjectures, or encumbering his understanding with all that Cunningham had
collected, as if purposely to puzzle the cause, Mr. Percy examined first
very carefully the original documents--then Lord Oldborough's notes on the
views and characters of the suspected persons, and the reasons of their
several enmities or dissatisfaction. From the scale of probabilities, which
he found had been with great skill calculated on these notes, he selected
the principal names, and then tried with these, whether he could make out
an idea that had struck him the moment he had heard of the Gassoc. He
recollected the famous word Cabal, in the reign of Charles the Second, and
he thought it possible that the cabalistical word Gassoc might be formed by
a similar combination. But _Gassoc_ was no English word, was no word of any
language. Upon close examination of the Tourville papers, he perceived that
the commissioner had been right in one of his suggestions, that the _G_ had
been written instead of a _C_: in some places it had been a _c_ turned into
a _g_, and the writer seemed to be in doubt whether the word should be
Gassoc or Cassoc. Assuming, therefore, that it was _Cassock_, Mr. Percy
found the initials of six persons, who stood high in Lord
Oldborough's scale of probabilities:
Chelsea--Arnold--Skreene--Skipworth--Oldfield--Coleman; and the last k, for
which he hunted in vain a considerable time, was supplied by Kensington
(one of the Duke of Greenwich's titles), whose name had been scratched out
of the list, since his reconciliation and connexion by marriage with Lord
Oldborough, but who had certainly at one time been of the league of his
lordship's enemies. Every circumstance and date in the Tourville papers
exactly agree with this explanation: the Cassock thus composed cleared up
all difficulties; and passages, that were before dark and mysterious, were
rendered by this reading perfectly intelligible. The interpretation, when
once given, appeared so simple, that Lord Oldborough wondered how it was
possible that it had not before occurred to his mind. His satisfaction was
great--he was at this moment relieved from all danger of mistaking friend
for foe; he felt that his enemies were in his power, and his triumph
secure.

"My dear sir," cried he, "you do not know, you cannot estimate, the extent
of the service you have done me: far from wishing to lessen it in your
eyes, I wish you to know at this moment its full importance. By Lady
Oldborough's death, and by circumstances with which I need not trouble you,
I lost the support of her connexions. The Duke of Greenwich, though my
relation, is a weak man, and a weak man can never be a good friend. I was
encompassed, undermined, the ground hollow under me--I knew it, but I could
not put my finger upon one of the traitors. Now I have them all at one
blow, and I thank you for it. I have the character, I believe, of being
what is called proud, but you see that I am not too proud to be assisted
and obliged by one who will never allow me to oblige or assist him or any
of his family. But why should this be? Look over the list of these men. In
some one of these places of trust, give me a person in whom I can confide,
a friend to me, and to your country. Look over that list, now in your hand,
and put your finger upon any thing that will suit you."

"I thank you, my lord," said Mr. Percy; "I feel the full value of your good
opinion, and true gratitude for the warmth of your friendship, but I cannot
accept of any office under your administration. Our political principles
differ as much as our private sentiments of honour agree; and these
sentiments will, I trust, make you approve of what I now say--and do."

"But there are places, there are situations which you might accept, where
your political opinions and mine could never clash. It is an extraordinary
thing for a minister to press a gentleman to accept of a place, unless he
expects more in return than what he gives. But come--I must have Mr. Percy
one of us. You have never tried ambition yet," added Lord Oldborough, with
a smile: "trust me, you will find ambition has its pleasures, its proud
moments, when a man feels that he has his foot on the neck of his enemies."

Lord Oldborough stood, as if he felt this pride at the instant. "You do not
know the charms of ambition, Mr. Percy."

"It may be delightful to feel one's foot on the neck of one's enemies, but,
for my part, I rather prefer having no enemies."

"No enemies!" said Lord Oldborough: "every man that has character enough to
make friends has character enough to make enemies--and must have enemies,
if not of his power or place, of his talents and property--the sphere
lower, the passion's the same. No enemies!--What is he, who has been at law
with you, and has robbed you of your estate?"

"I forgot him--upon my word, I forgot him," said Mr. Percy. "You see, my
lord, if he robbed me of my estate, he did not rob me of my peace of mind.
Does your lordship think," said Mr. Percy, smiling, "that any ambitious
man, deprived of his place, could say as much?"

"When I can tell you that from my own experience, you shall know," said
Lord Oldborough, replying in the same tone; "but, thanks to your discovery,
there seems to be little chance, at present, of my being competent to
answer that question. But to business--we are wasting life."

Every word or action that did not tend to a political purpose appeared to
Lord Oldborough to be a waste of life.

"Your ultimatum? Can you be one of us?"

"Impossible, my lord. Pardon me if I say, that the nearer the view your
confidence permits me to take of the workings of your powerful mind, and of
the pains and penalties of your exalted situation, the more clearly I feel
that ambition is not for me, that my happiness lies in another line."

"Enough--I have done--the subject is at rest between us for ever." A cloud,
followed instantaneously by a strong radiance of pleasure, passed across
Lord Oldborough's countenance, while he pronounced, as if speaking to
himself, the words, "Singular obstinacy! Admirable consistency! And I too
am consistent, my dear sir," said he, sitting down at the table. "Now for
business; but I am deprived of my right hand." He rang, and desired his
secretary, Mr. Temple, to be sent to him. Mr. Percy rose to take leave, but
Lord Oldborough would not permit him to go. "I can have no secrets for you,
Mr. Percy--stay and see the end of the Cassock."

Mr. Temple came in; and Lord Oldborough, with that promptitude and decision
by which he was characterised, dictated a letter to the king, laying before
his majesty the whole intrigue, as discovered by the Tourville papers,
adding a list of the members of the _Cassock_--concluding by begging his
majesty's permission to resign, unless the cabal, which had rendered his
efforts for the good of the country and for his majesty's service in some
points abortive, should be dismissed from his majesty's councils. In
another letter to a private friend, who had access to the royal ear, Lord
Oldborough named the persons, whom, if his majesty should do him the favour
of consulting him, he should wish to recommend in the places of those
who might be dismissed. His lordship farther remarked, that the marriage
which had taken place between his niece and the eldest son of the Duke of
Greenwich, and the late proofs of his grace's friendship, dissipated all
fears and resentment arising from his former connexion with the Cassock.
Lord Oldborough therefore entreated his majesty to continue his grace in
his ministry. All this was stated in the shortest and plainest terms.

"No rounded periods, _no phrases_, no fine writing, Mr. Temple, upon this
occasion, if you please; it must be felt that these letters are straight
from my mind, and that if they are not written by my own hand, it is
because that hand is disabled. As soon as the gout will let me stir, I
shall pay my duty to my sovereign in person. These arrangements will be
completed, I trust, by the meeting of parliament. In the mean time I am
better here than in London; the blow will be struck, and none will know
by whom--not but what I am ready to avow it, if called upon. But--let the
coffee-house politicians decide, and the country gentlemen prose upon it,"
said Lord Oldborough, smiling--"some will say the ministry split on India
affairs, some on Spanish, some on French affairs. How little they, any
of them, know what passes or what governs behind the curtain! Let them
talk--whilst I act."

The joy of this discovery so raised Lord Oldborough's spirits, and dilated
his heart, that he threw himself open with a freedom and hilarity, and with
a degree of humour unusual to him, and unknown except to the few in his
most intimate confidence. The letters finished, Mr. Temple was immediately
despatched with them to town.

"There," said Lord Oldborough, as soon as Mr. Temple had left him, "there's
a secretary I can depend upon; and there is another obligation I owe to
your family--to your son Alfred."

Now this business of the Tourville papers was off his mind, Lord
Oldborough, though not much accustomed to turn his attention to the lesser
details of domestic life, spoke of every individual of the Percy family
with whom he was acquainted; and, in particular, of Godfrey, to whom he
was conscious that he had been unjust. Mr. Percy, to relieve him from this
regret, talked of the pleasure his son had had in his friend Gascoigne's
late promotion to the lieutenant-colonelcy. Whilst Mr. Percy spoke, Lord
Oldborough searched among a packet of letters for one which made honourable
mention of Captain Percy, and put it into the hands of the happy father.

"Ah! these are pleasurable feelings denied to me," said Lord Oldborough.

After a pause he added, "That nephew of mine, Colonel Hauton, is
irretrievably profligate, selfish, insignificant. I look to my niece, the
Marchioness of Twickenham's child, that is to say, if the mother--"

Another long pause, during which his lordship rubbed the glasses of his
spectacles, and looked through them, as if intent that no speck should
remain; while he did this very slowly, his mind ran rapidly from the idea
of the Marchioness of Twickenham to John Falconer, and thence to all the
causes of distrust and discontent which he felt towards all the different
individuals of the Falconer family. He considered, that now the Tourville
papers had been completely deciphered, the necessity for engaging the
secrecy of the commissioner, and of his son Cunningham, would soon cease.

Lord Oldborough's reverie was interrupted by seeing, at this instant, the
commissioner returning from his ride.

"Not a word, Mr. Percy, of what has passed between us, to Commissioner
Falconer--not a word of the _Gassoc_. I put you on your guard, because you
live with those in whom you have entire confidence," said Lord Oldborough;
"but that is what a public man, a minister, cannot do."

Another reason why I should not like to be a minister, thought Mr.
Percy. "I took it for granted that the commissioner was entirely in your
lordship's confidence."

"I thought you were too good a philosopher to take any thing for granted,
Mr. Percy. Consider, if you please, that I am in a situation where I must
have tools, and use them, as long as I can make them serviceable to my
purposes. Sir, I am not a missionary, but a minister. I must work with
men, and upon men, such as I find them. I am not a chemist, to analyze and
purify the gold. I make no objection to that alloy, which I am told is
necessary, and fits it for being moulded to my purposes. But here comes the
ductile commissioner."

Lord Oldborough began to talk to him of the borough, without any mercy
for his curiosity, and without any attempt to evade the various dexterous
pushes he made to discover the business which had this morning occupied his
lordship. Mr. Percy was surprised, in the course of this day, to see the
manner in which the commissioner, a gentleman well-born, of originally
independent fortune and station, humbled and abased himself to a patron.
Mr. Falconer had contracted a certain cringing servility of manner, which
completely altered his whole appearance, and which quite prevented him even
from looking like a gentleman. It was his principle never to contradict
a great man, never to give him any sort of pain; and his idea of the
deference due to rank, and of the danger of losing favour by giving
offence, was carried so far, that not only his attitude and language, but
his whole mind, seemed to be new modified. He had not the free use of his
faculties. He seemed really so to subdue and submit his powers, that his
understanding was annihilated. Mr. Percy was astonished at the change
in his cousin; the commissioner was equally surprised, nay, actually
terrified, by Mr. Percy's freedom and boldness. "Good Heavens! how can you
speak in this manner?" said Mr. Falconer, as they were going down stairs
together, after parting with Lord Oldborough.

"And why not?--I have nothing to fear or to hope, nothing to gain or to
lose. Lord Oldborough can give me nothing that I would accept, but his
esteem, and that I am sure of never losing."

Heigho! if I had your favour with my lord, what I would make of it! thought
the commissioner, as he stepped into his chariot. Mr. Percy mounted his
horse, and rode back to his humble home, glad to have done his friend Lord
Oldborough a service, still more glad that he was not bound to the minister
by any of the chains of political dependence. Rejoiced to quit Tourville
papers--state intrigues--lists of enemies,--and all the necessity for
reserve and _management_, and all the turmoil of ambition.




CHAPTER XXV.


Count Altenberg arrived at Clermont-park, and as Lord Oldborough was
still confined by the gout, Commissioner Falconer, to his lady's infinite
satisfaction, was deputed to show him every thing that was worth seeing
in this part of the country. Every morning some party was formed by Mrs.
Falconer, and so happily arranged that her Georgiana and the count were
necessarily thrown together. The count rode extremely well; Miss Falconers
had been taught to ride in a celebrated riding-house, and were delighted
to display their equestrian graces. When they were not disposed to ride,
the count had a phaeton; and Mrs. Falconer a barouche; and either in the
phaeton, or the barouche seat, Miss Georgiana Falconer was seated with the
count, who, as she discovered, drove uncommonly well.

The count had expressed a desire to see the place where M. de Tourville
had been shipwrecked, and he really wished to be introduced to the Percy
family, of whom, from the specimen he had seen in Alfred, and from all the
hospitality they had shown the distressed mariners (some of whom were his
countrymen), he had formed a favourable opinion. Half his wish was granted,
the rest dispersed in empty air. Mrs. Falconer with alacrity arranged a
party for Percy-hall, to show the count the scene of the shipwreck. She
should be so glad to see it herself, for she was absent from the country
at the time of the sad disaster; but the commissioner, who knew the spot,
and all the circumstances, better than any other person, would show them
every thing--and Sir Robert Percy, she was sure, would think himself much
honoured by Count Altenberg's visiting his place.

Count Altenberg had some confused recollection of Mr. Alfred Percy's having
told him that his father no longer lived at Percy hall; but this speech of
Mrs. Falconer's led the count to believe that he had misunderstood what
Alfred had said.

The party arranged for Percy-hall consisted of the Miss Falconers, the two
Lady Arlingtons, and some other young people, who were at Falconer-court.
It was a fine morning, Mrs. Falconer was all suavity and smiles, both the
Miss Falconers in charming hopes, and consequently in charming spirits.

Percy-hall was really a beautiful place, and Miss Arabella Falconer now
looked at it with the pleasure of anticipated possession. Sir Robert Percy
was not at home, he had been obliged that morning to be absent on some
special business; but he had left orders with his steward and housekeeper
to show the party of visitors the house and grounds. In going through the
apartments they came to the gallery leading to the library, where they were
stopped by some workmen's trestles, on which were lying two painted glass
windows, one that had been taken down, and another which was to be put in
its stead. Whilst the workmen were moving the obstacles out of the way, the
company had leisure to admire the painted windows. One of them was covered
with coats of arms: the other represented the fire at Percy-hall, and the
portrait of Caroline assisting the old nurse down the staircase. This
painting immediately fixed Count Altenberg's eye, and Miss Georgiana
Falconer, not knowing whose portrait it was, exclaimed, as she looked at
the figure of Caroline, "Beautiful! Exquisite! What a lovely creature that
is assisting the old woman!"

"Yes," said Count Altenberg, "it is one of the finest countenances I ever
beheld."

All the ladies eagerly pressed forward to look at it.

"Beautiful! Don't you think it is something like Lady Anne Cope?" said Miss
Falconer.

"Oh! dear, no!" cried Miss Georgiana Falconer: "it is a great deal
handsomer than any of the Copes ever were, or ever will be!"

"It has a look of Lady Mary Nesbitt," said one of the Lady Arlingtons.

"The eyes are so like Lady Coningsby, who is my delight," said Georgiana.

"And it has quite the Arlington nose," said Mrs. Falconer, glancing her
eye upon the Lady Arlingtons. Count Altenberg, without moving his eye,
repeated, "It is the most beautiful face I ever beheld."

"Not nearly so beautiful as the original, sir," said the painter.

"The original?--Is it a copy?"

"A portrait, sir."

"Oh! a family portrait of one of our great, great grandmother Percys, I
suppose," said Miss Georgiana, "done in her youth--in a fancy piece,
you know, according to the taste of those times--she must have been
superlatively lovely."

"Ma'am," said the painter, "the young lady, of whom this is a portrait, is,
I hope and believe, now living."

"Where?--and who can she be?--for I am sure I don't recollect ever having
seen her in all my life--never met her in town any where--Pray, sir, who
may it be?" added she, turning to the artist, with a mixture of affected
negligence and real pride.

"Miss Caroline Percy, ma'am."

"A daughter of Sir Robert Percy--of the gentleman of this house?" said
Count Altenberg eagerly.

Mrs. Falconer, and her daughter Georgiana, answered rapidly, with looks of
alarm, as they stood a little behind the count.

"Oh! no, no, Count Altenberg," cried Mrs. Falconer, advancing, "not a
daughter of the gentleman of this house--another family, relations, but
distant relations of the commissioner's: _he_ formerly knew something of
them, but _we_ know nothing of them."

The painter however knew a great deal, and seemed anxious to tell all he
knew: but Mrs. Falconer walked on immediately, saying, "This is our way,
is not it? This leads to the library, where, I dare say, we shall find the
book which the count wanted." The count heard her not, for with his eyes
fixed on the picture he was listening to the account which the painter was
giving of the circumstance it recorded of the fire at Percy-hall--of the
presence of mind and humanity of Miss Caroline Percy, who had saved the
life of the poor decrepit woman, who in the picture was represented as
leaning upon her arm. The painter paused when he came to this part of his
story--"That woman was my mother, sir."--He went on, and with all the
eloquence of filial affection and of gratitude, pronounced in a few words
a panegyric on the family who had been his first and his best benefactors:
all who heard him were touched with his honest warmth, except the Miss
Falconers.

"I dare say _those_ Percys were very good people in their day," said Miss
Falconer; "but their day is over, and no doubt you'll find, in the present
possessor of the estate, sir, as good a patron at least."

The artist took up his pencil without making any reply, and went on with
some heraldic devices he was painting.

"I am amazed how you could see any likeness in that face or figure to Lady
Anne Cope, or Lady Mary Nesbitt, or any of the Arlingtons," said Miss
Georgiana Falconer, looking through her hand at the portrait of Caroline:
"it's the most beautiful thing I ever saw, certainly; but there's nothing
of an air of fashion, and without that--"

"Count Altenberg, I have found for you the very book I heard you tell the
commissioner last night you wished so much to see," said Mrs. Falconer.
The count went forward to receive the book, and to thank the lady for
her polite attention; she turned over the leaves, and showed him some
uncommonly fine prints, which he was bound to admire--and whilst he
was admiring, Mrs. Falconer found a moment to whisper to her daughter
Georgiana, "Not a word more about the picture: let it alone, and it is only
a picture--dwell upon it, and you make it a reality."

Miss Georgiana had quickness and ability sufficient to feel the value of
her mother's knowledge of the world and of human nature, but she had seldom
sufficient command of temper to imitate or to benefit by Mrs. Falconer's
address. On this occasion she contented herself with venting her spleen
on the poor painter, whose colouring and drapery she began to criticize
unmercifully. Mrs. Falconer, however, carried off the count with her into
the library, and kept him there, till the commissioner, who had been
detained in the neighbouring village by some electioneering business,
arrived; and then they pursued their walk together through the park. Miss
Falconer was particularly delighted with the beauties of the grounds. Miss
Georgiana, recovering her good-humour, was again charming--and all went on
well; till they came near the sea-shore, and the count asked Commissioner
Falconer to show him the place where the shipwreck had happened. She was
provoked that his attention should be withdrawn from her, and again by
these Percys. The commissioner called to one of the boatmen who had been
ordered to be in readiness, and asked him to point out the place where the
Dutch vessel had been wrecked. The man, who seemed rather surly, replied
that they could not see the right place where they stood, and if they had a
mind to see it, they must come into the boat, and _row a piece_ up farther.

Now some of these town-bred ladies were alarmed at the idea of going to
sea, and though Miss Georgiana was very unwilling to be separated from the
count, and though her mother encouraged the young lady to vanquish her
fears as much by precept and as little by example as possible, yet when
she was to be handed into the boat, she drew back in pretty terror, put
her hands before her face, and protested she could not venture even with
Count Altenberg. After as much waste of words as the discussion of such
arrangements on a party of pleasure usually involves, it was at length
settled that only the commissioner should accompany the count, that the
rest of the gentlemen and ladies should pursue their walk, and that they
should all meet again at the park-gate. The surly boatman rowed off,
but he soon ceased to be surly when the count spoke of the humanity and
hospitality which had been shown to some of his countrymen by Mr. Percy.
Immediately the boatman's tongue was loosed.

"Why, ay, sir, if you bees curous about _that_ there gentleman, I can tell
you a deal about him. But them as comes to see the new man does not covet
to hear talk of the old master; but, nevertheless, there's none like
him--he gave me and wife that there white cottage yonder, half ways up the
bank, where you see the smoke rising between the trees--as snug a cottage
it is!--But that is no matter to you, sir. But I wish you had but _seed_
him the night of the shipwreck, he and his son, God above bless him, and
them--wherever they are, if they're above ground. I'd row out the worse
night ever we had, to set my eyes on them again before I die, but for a
minute. Ay, that night of the shipwreck, not a man was willing to go out
with them, or could be got out the first turn, but myself."

Upon this text he spoke at large, entering into a most circumstantial and
diffuse history of the shipwreck, mingling his own praises with those
which he heartily bestowed upon the Percys of the right good old branch.
Commissioner Falconer meantime was not in a condition to throw in any thing
in favour of his new friend Sir Robert Percy; he was taking pinch after
pinch of snuff, looking alternately at the water and the boat, sitting
stiffly upright in anxious silence. Although in the incessant practice
of suppressing his own feelings, corporeal and mental, from respect or
complaisance to his superiors in rank and station, yet he presently found
it beyond the utmost efforts of his courtly philosophy to endure his qualms
of mind and body. Interrupting the talkative boatman, he first conjured
the orator to mind what he was about; at last, Mr. Falconer complaining of
growing very sick, the count gave up all thoughts of proceeding farther,
and begged the boatman to put them ashore as soon as he could. They
landed near the village, which it was necessary that they should pass
through, before they could reach the appointed place of meeting. The poor
commissioner, whose stomach was still disordered, and whose head was giddy,
observed that they had yet a long walk to take, and proposed sending for
one of the carriages--accordingly they waited for it at the village inn.
The commissioner, after having made a multitude of apologies to the count,
retired to rest himself--during his absence, the count, who, wherever he
was, endeavoured to see as much as possible of the manners of the people,
began talking to the landlord and landlady. Again the conversation turned
upon the characters of the late and the present possessors of Percy-hall;
and the good people, by all the anecdotes they told, and still more by the
warm attachment they expressed for the old banished family, increased every
moment his desire to be personally acquainted with those who in adversity
were preferred to persons in present power and prosperity. Count Altenberg,
young as he was, had seen enough of the world to feel the full value of
eulogiums bestowed on those who are poor, and who have no means of serving
in any way the interests of their panegyrists.

When the carriage came, and the commissioner was sufficiently refitted for
conversation, the count repeatedly expressed his earnest wish to become
acquainted with that Mr. Percy and his family, to whom his countrymen had
been so much obliged, and of whom he said he had this morning heard so many
interesting anecdotes. The commissioner had not been present when the count
saw the picture of Caroline, nor indeed did he enter into Mrs. Falconer's
matrimonial designs for her daughter Georgiana. The commissioner generally
saw the folly, and despaired of the success, of all castle-building but his
own, and his castles in the air were always on a political plan. So without
difficulty he immediately replied that nothing would give him more pleasure
than to introduce the count to his relations, the Percys. The moment this
was mentioned, however, to Mrs. Falconer, the commissioner saw through the
complacent countenance, with which she forced herself to listen to him,
that he had made some terrible blunder, for which he should have to answer
in private.

Accordingly the first moment they were alone, Mrs. Falconer reproached him
with the rash promise he had made. "I shall have all the difficulty in the
world to put this out of the count's head. I thought, Mr. Falconer, that
you had agreed to let _those_ Percys drop."

"So I would if I could, my dear; but how can I, when Lord Oldborough
persists in holding them up?--You must go and see them, my dear."

"I!" cried Mrs. Falconer, with a look of horror; "I!--not I, indeed! Lord
Oldborough holds up only the gentlemen of the family--his lordship has
nothing to do with the ladies, I suppose. Now, you know visiting can go on
vastly well, to all eternity, between the gentlemen of a family without
the ladies having any sort of intimacy or acquaintance even. You and Mr.
Percy--if it is necessary for appearance sake with Lord Oldborough--may
continue upon the old footing; but I charge you, commissioner, do not
involve me--and whatever happens, don't take Count Altenberg with you to
the Hills."

"Why not, my dear?"

"My dear, I have my reasons. You were not in the gallery at Percy-hall this
morning, when the count saw that painted glass window?"

The commissioner begged an explanation; but when he had heard all Mrs.
Falconer's reasons, they did not seem to strike him with the force she
desired and expected.

"I will do as you please, my dear," said he, "and, if I can, I will make
the count forget my promised introduction to the Percys; but all the time,
depend upon it, your fears and your hopes are both equally vain. You ladies
are apt to take it for granted that men's heads are always running on
love."

"Young men's heads sometimes are," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Very seldom in these days," said the commissioner. "And love altogether,
as one should think you might know by this time, Mrs. Falconer--a sensible
woman of the world, as you are; but no woman, even the most sensible, can
ever believe it--love altogether has surprisingly little to do in the real
management and business of the world."

"Surprisingly little," replied Mrs. Falconer, placidly. "But seriously, my
dear, here is an opportunity of making an excellent match for Georgiana, if
you will be so obliging as not to counteract me."

"I am the last man in the world to counteract you, my dear; but it will
never do," said Mr. Falconer; "and you will only make Georgiana ridiculous,
as she has been several times already, from the failure of these
love-matches. I tell you, Mrs. Falconer, Count Altenberg is no more
thinking of love than I am--nor is he a man in the least likely to fall in
love."

"He is more than half in love with my Georgiana already," said the mother,
"if I have any eyes."

"You have eyes, and very fine eyes, my dear, as every body knows, and no
one better than myself--they have but one defect."

"Defect!"

"They sometimes see more than exists."

"You would not be so incredulous, Mr. Falconer, if you had seen the rapture
with which the count listens to Georgiana when she plays on the harp. He is
prodigiously fond of music."

"And of painting too," said the commissioner; "for, by your account of the
matter, he seemed to have been more than half in love also with a picture
this morning."

"A picture is no very dangerous rival, except in a _modern novel_," replied
Mrs. Falconer. "But beware, commissioner--and remember, I understand these
things--I warn you in time--beware of the original of that picture, and
never again talk to me of going to see those Percys; for though the girl
may be only an unfashioned country beauty, and Georgiana has so many
polished advantages, yet there is no knowing what whim a young man might
take into his head."

The commissioner, though he remained completely of his own opinion, that
Mrs. Falconer's scheme for Georgiana would never do, disputed the point no
farther, but left the room, promising all she required, for promises cost
him nothing. To do him justice, he recollected and endeavoured to the
best of his power to keep his word; for the next morning he took his
time so well to propose a ride to the Hills, just at the moment when
Lord Oldborough and the count were deep in a conversation on the state
of continental politics, that his lordship would not part with him. The
commissioner paid his visit alone, and Mrs. Falconer gave him credit for
his address; but scarcely had she congratulated herself, when she was
thrown again into terror--the commissioner had suggested to Lord Oldborough
the propriety and policy of giving, whilst he was in the country, a
_popularity ball_! His lordship assented, and Mrs. Falconer, as usual, was
to take the trouble off his hands, and to give an entertainment, to his
lordship's friends. Lord Oldborough had not yet recovered from the gout,
and he was glad to accept of her offer: his lordship not being able to
appear, or to do the honours of the fte, was a sufficient apology for his
not giving it at Clermont-park.

The obsequious commissioner begged to have a list of any friends whom Lord
Oldborough particularly wished to have invited; but his lordship, with a
look of absence, replied, that he left all that entirely to Mrs. Falconer;
however, the very evening of the day on which the commissioner paid his
visit alone at the Hills, Lord Oldborough put into his hands a list of the
friends whom he wished should be invited to the ball, and at the head of
his list were the Percys.

"The Percys! the very people I first thought of!" said Mr. Falconer,
commanding his countenance carefully: "but I fear we cannot hope to have
them, they are at such a distance, and they have no carriage."

"Any of my carriages, all of them, shall be at their command," said Lord
Oldborough.

The commissioner reported this to Mrs. Falconer, observing that he had gone
to the very brink of offending Lord Oldborough to oblige her, as he knew by
his lordship's look and tone of voice; and that nothing now could be done,
but to visit the Percys, and as soon as possible, and to send them a card
of invitation for the ball.

"And, my dear, whatever you do, I am sure will be done with a good grace,"
added the commissioner, observing that his lady looked excessively
discomfited.

"Very well, commissioner; you will have your daughter upon your hands,
that's all."

"I should be as sorry for that, my love, as you could be; but what can be
done? we must not lose the substance in running after the shadow. Lord
Oldborough might turn short round upon us."

"Not the least likely upon such a trifling occasion as this, where no
politics are in question. What can Mrs. or Miss Percy's being or not being
at this ball signify to Lord Oldborough?--a man who never in his life
thought of balls or cared any thing about women, and these are women whom
he has never seen. What interest can it possibly be of Lord Oldborough's?"

"I cannot tell you, my dear--I don't see any immediate interest. But
there's an old private friendship in the case. Some way or other, I declare
I cannot tell you how, that old cousin Percy of mine has contrived to get
nearer to Lord Oldborough than any one living ever could do--nearer to his
heart."

"Heart!--Private friendship!" repeated Mrs. Falconer, with a tone of
ineffable contempt. "Well, I only wish you had said nothing about the
matter to Lord Oldborough; I could have managed it myself. Was there ever
such want of address! When you saw the Percys at the head of the list, was
that a time to say any thing about your fears of their not coming? Do you
think Lord Oldborough could not translate fears into hopes? Then to mention
their having no carriages!--when, if you had kept your own counsel, that
would have been our sufficient excuse at last. They must have refused:
nothing need have been said about it till the night of the ball; and I
would lay my life, Lord Oldborough would never, in the mean time, have
thought of it, or of them. But so silly! to object in that way, when you
know that the slightest contradiction wakens Lord Oldborough's will, and
then indeed you might as well talk to his own Jupiter Tonans. If his
lordship had set a beggar-woman's name at the head of his list, and you had
objected that she had no carriage, he would directly have answered 'She
shall have mine.' Bless me! It's wonderful that people can pique themselves
on address, and have so little knowledge of character."

"My dear," said the commissioner, "if you reproach me from this time till
to-morrow, the end of the matter will be, that you must go and see the
Percys. I say, Mrs. Falconer," added he, assuming a peremptory tone, for
which he had acquired a taste from Lord Oldborough, but had seldom courage
or opportunity to indulge in it, "I say, Mrs. Falconer, the thing must be
done." He rang the bell in a gloriously authoritative manner, and ordered
the carriage.

A visit paid thus upon compulsion was not likely to be very agreeable; but
the complaints against the roads, the dreadful distance, and the horrid
necessity of being civil, need not be recorded. Miss Falconers exclaimed
when they at last came to the Hills, "La! I did not think it was so
tolerable a place!" Miss Georgiana hoped that they should, at least, see
Miss Caroline--she owned she was curious to see that beautiful original,
of whom the painter at Percy Hall, and her brother Buckhurst, had said so
much.

Mrs. Percy and Rosamond only were at home. Caroline had taken a walk with
her father to a considerable distance.

Mrs. Falconer, who had, by this time, completely recovered her
self-command, presented herself with such smiling grace, and expressed, in
such a tone of cordiality, her earnest desire, now that she had been so
happy as to get into the country, to enjoy the society of her friends and
relations, that Rosamond was quite charmed into a belief of at least half
of what she said. Rosamond was willing to attribute all that had appeared,
particularly of late, in contradiction of this lady's present professions,
to some political motives of Commissioner Falconer, whom she disliked for
his conduct to Buckhurst, and whom she was completely willing to give up as
a worldly-minded courtier. But whilst the manners of the mother operated
thus with Rosamond in favour of her moral character, even Rosamond's easy
faith and sanguine benevolence could not see or hear any thing from the
daughters that confirmed Mrs. Falconer's flattering speeches; they sat in
languid silence, looking upon the animate and inanimate objects in the room
with the same air of supercilious listlessness. They could not speak so as
to be heard, they could not really understand any thing that Rosamond said
to them; they seemed as if their bodies had been brought into the room by
mistake, and their souls left behind them: not that they were in the least
timid or abashed; no, they seemed fully satisfied with their own inanity,
and proud to show that they had absolutely no ideas in common with those
into whose company they had been thus unfortunately compelled. Once or
twice they turned their heads with some signs of vivacity, when the door
opened, and when they expected to see Miss Caroline Percy enter: but though
the visit was protracted, in hopes of her return, yet at last they were
obliged to depart without having their curiosity satisfied.

Mrs. Falconer's fears of rivalship for her Georgiana were not diminished
by this visit. By those of the family whom she saw this day, she judged of
Caroline, whom she had not seen; and she had tact sufficient to apprehend,
that the conversation and manners of Mrs. Percy and of Rosamond were such
as might, perhaps, please a well-bred and well-informed foreigner better,
even, than the fashionable tone and air of the day, of which he had not
been long enough in England to appreciate the conventional value. Still
Mrs. Falconer had a lingering hope that some difficulties about dress, or
some happy cold, might prevent these dangerous Percys from accepting the
invitation to the ball. When their answers to her card came, she gave one
hasty glance at it.

"Will do themselves the honour."

"My dear, you are alarming yourself unnecessarily," cried the commissioner,
who pitied the distress visible, at least to his eyes, in her countenance;
or who feared, perhaps, a renewal of reproaches for his own want of
address, "quite unnecessarily, believe me. I have had a great deal of
conversation with Count Altenberg since I spoke of him to you last, and I
am confirmed in my opinion that he merely feels the curiosity natural to an
enlightened traveller to become acquainted with Mr. Percy, a man who has
been described to him as a person of abilities. And he wants to thank him
in the name of his countrymen, who were assisted, you know I told you, by
the Percys, at the time of the shipwreck. You will see, my dear, that the
ladies of the family will be nothing to him."

Mrs. Falconer sighed, and bit her lips.

"In half an hour's conversation, I would engage to find out the ruling
passion of any man, young or old. Now, remember I tell you, Mrs. Falconer,
Count Altenberg's ruling passion is ambition."

"Ruling passion!" repeated Mrs. Falconer; "one of your book-words,
and book-notions, that are always misleading you in practice. Ruling
passion!--Metaphysical nonsense! As if men were such consistent creatures
as to be ruled regularly by one passion--when often ten different passions
pull a man, even before your face, ten different ways, and one cannot tell
one hour what will be the ruling passion of the next. Tell me the reigning
fashion, and I will tell you the ruling passion!--Luckily," continued
Mrs. Falconer, after a pause of deep consideration, "Georgiana is very
fashionable--one of the most fashionable young women in England, as the
count might have seen when he was in London. But then, on the other hand,
whether he is judge enough of English manners--Georgiana must be well
dressed--and I know the Count's taste in dress; I have made myself mistress
of that--commissioner, I must trouble you for some money."

"Mrs. Falconer, I have no money; and if I had," said the commissioner,
who always lost his temper when that subject was touched upon, "if I
had, I would not give it to you to throw away upon such a losing game--a
nonsensical speculation! Georgiana has not the least chance, nor has any
other English woman, were she as handsome as Venus and dressed in bank
notes--why, Mrs. Falconer, since you put me in a passion, I must tell you a
secret."

But checking himself, Mr. Falconer stood for a moment silent, and went on
with "Count Altenberg has made up his quarrel with the hereditary prince,
and I have it from undoubted authority, that he is to be the prince's prime
minister when he comes to the throne; and the present prince, you know, as
Cunningham says, is so infirm and asthmatic, that he may be carried off at
any moment."

"Very well--very likely--I am glad of it," said Mrs. Falconer: "but where's
the secret?"

"I've thought better of that, and I cannot tell it to you. But this much I
tell you positively, Mrs. Falconer, that you will lose your labour, if you
speculate upon the Count for Georgiana."

"Is he married? Answer me that question, and I will ask no more--and that I
have a right to ask."

"No--not married; but I can tell no more. Only let me beg that you will
just put all love notions out of Georgiana's head and your own, or you'll
make the girl ridiculous, and expose yourself, my dear. But, on the other
hand, let there be no deficiency of attention to the count, for all our
civilities to him will pay a hundred fold, and, perhaps, sooner than you
expect--for he may be prime minister and prime favourite at Cunningham's
court in a month, and of course will have it in his power to forward
Cunningham's interests. That is what I look to, Mrs. Falconer; for I am
long-sighted in my views, as you will find."

"Well, time will show. I am glad you tell me he positively is not married,"
concluded Mrs. Falconer: "as to the rest, we shall see."




CHAPTER XXVI.


The evening appointed for Mrs. Falconer's ball at length arrived; and all
the neighbouring gentry assembled at Falconer-court. They were received
by Mrs. Falconer in a splendid saloon, newly furnished for this occasion,
which displayed in its decorations the utmost perfection of modern taste
and magnificence.

Mrs. Falconer was fitted, both by art and nature, to adorn a ball-room,
and conduct a ball. With that ease of manner which a perfect knowledge of
the world and long practice alone can give, she floated round the circle,
conscious that she was in her element. Her eye, with one glance, seemed to
pervade the whole assembly; her ear divided itself amongst a multitude of
voices; and her attention diffused itself over all with equal grace. Yet
that attention, universal as it seemed, was nicely discriminative. Mistress
of the art of pleasing, and perfectly acquainted with all the shades of
politeness, she knew how to dispose them so as to conceal their boundaries,
and even their gradation, from all but the most skilful observers. They
might, indeed, have formed, from Mrs. Falconer's reception of each of her
guests, an exact estimate of their rank, fashion, and consequence in the
world; for by these standards she regulated her opinion, and measured her
regard. Every one present knew this to be her theory, and observed it to be
her practice towards others; but each flattered themselves by turns that
they discovered in her manner a personal exception in their own favour.
In the turn of her countenance, the tone of her voice, her smile or her
anxiety, in her distant respect or her affectionate familiarity, some
distinction was discerned peculiar to each individual.

The Miss Falconers, stationary at one end of the room, seemed to have
adopted manners diametrically opposite to those of their mother: attraction
being the principle of the mother, repulsion of the daughters. Encircled
amongst a party of young female friends, Miss Falconers, with high-bred
airs, confined to their own _coterie_ their exclusive attention.

They left to their mother the responsibility and all the labour of _doing
the honours_ of her own house, whilst they enjoyed the glory of being
remarked and _wondered at_ by half the company; a circumstance which, far
from embarrassing, seemed obviously to increase their gaiety.

The ball could not begin till the band of a regiment, quartered in the
neighbourhood, arrived. Whilst they were waiting for the music, the Miss
Falconers and their party stationed themselves directly opposite to the
entrance of the saloon, so as to have a full view of the antechamber
through which the company were to pass--no one passed uncensured by this
confederacy. The first coup-d'oeil decided the fate of all who appeared,
and each of the fair judges vied with the others in the severity of the
sentence pronounced on the unfortunate persons who thus came before their
merciless tribunal.

"But I am astonished the Percys do not make their appearance," cried Miss
Georgiana Falconer.

"Has Sir Robert Percy any one with him?" asked one of the young ladies.

"I am not speaking of Sir Robert Percy," replied Miss Georgiana, "but
of the other branch, the fallen branch of the Percys--our relations
too--but we know nothing of them--only mamma was obliged to ask them for
to-night--And, Bell, only conceive how horribly provoking! because they
come, we sha'n't have Sir Robert Percy--just sent to excuse himself."

"Abominable! Now, really!--And for people quite out of the world, that
nobody ever heard of, except Lord Oldborough, who, ages ago, had some
political connexion, I think they say, with the father," said Miss
Arabella.

"No, they met abroad, or something of that sort," replied Miss Georgiana.

"Was that it? Very likely--I know nothing about them: I only wish they
had stayed at home, where they are so fond of staying, I hear. You know,
Georgiana, Buckhurst told us, that when they had something to live upon
they never lived like other people, but always were buried alive in the
country; and Lady Jane Granville, with her own lips, told me, that,
even since they lost their fortune, she had asked one of these girls to
town with her and to Tunbridge--Now only conceive how kind! and what an
advantage that would have been--And, can you believe it? Mr. Percy was
so unaccountable, and they all so odd, that they refused--Lady Jane, of
course, will never ask them again. But now, must not they be the silliest
creatures in the universe?"

"Silly! Oh! dear, no: there you are wrong, Bell; for you know they are all
so wise, and so learned, so blue, such a deep blue, and all that sort of
thing, that, for my part, I shall never dare to open my lips before them."

"Fortunately," said one of the young ladies, "you have not much to fear
from their learning at a ball; and as dancers I don't apprehend you have
much to dread from any of them, even from _the beauty_."

"Why, scarcely," said Miss Georgiana; "I own I shall be curious to see how
they will _get on--'comment ces savantes se tireront d'affaire_.' I wonder
they are not here. Keep your eye on the door, dear Lady Frances--I would
not miss their entre for millions."

In vain eyes and glasses were fixed in expectation of the arrival of these
devoted objects of ridicule--another, and another, and another came, but
not the Percys.

The band was now ready, and began to play--Count Altenberg entered the
room. Quick as grace can venture to move, Mrs. Falconer glided to receive
him. Miss Georgiana Falconer, at the same moment, composed her features
into their most becoming position, and gave herself a fine air of the head.
The Count bowed to her--she fanned herself, and her eye involuntarily
glanced, first at a brilliant star he wore, and then at her mother,
whilst, with no small degree of anxiety, she prepared to play off, on this
decisive evening, all her artillery, to complete her conquest--to complete
her victory, for she flattered herself that only the finishing blow was
wanting. In this belief her female companions contributed to confirm her,
though probably they were all the time laughing at her vanity.

Mrs. Falconer requested Count Altenberg to open the ball with Lady Frances
Arlington. After having obeyed her orders, he next led out Miss Georgiana
Falconer, evidently to her satisfaction; the more so, as she was conscious
of being, at that moment, the envy of at least half the company.

Count Altenberg, quite unconscious of being himself the object of any
attention, seemed to think only of showing his partner to advantage; if he
danced well, it appeared to be only because he habitually moved with ease
and dignity, and that whatever he did he looked like a gentleman. His fair
partner danced admirably, and now surpassed herself.

It was repeated to Mrs. Falconer, that Colonel Bremen, the Count's friend,
had told some one that the Count had declared he had never seen any
thing equal to Miss Georgiana Falconer, except at the opera at Paris. At
this triumphant moment Miss Georgiana could have seen, with security and
complacency, the arrival of Miss Caroline Percy. The more prudent mother,
however, was well satisfied with her absence. Every thing conspired to Mrs.
Falconer's satisfaction. The ball was far advanced, and no Percys appeared.
Mrs. Falconer wondered, and deplored, and at length it came near the hour
when supper was ordered--the commissioner inquired whether Mrs. Falconer
was certain that she had named the right day on the card?

"Oh! certain--But it is now so late, I am clear they will not be here
to-night."

"Very extraordinary, to keep Lord Oldborough's carriage and servants!" said
the commissioner: "they went in time, I am sure, for I saw them set out."

"All I know is, that we have done every thing that is proper," said Mrs.
Falconer, "and Lord Oldborough cannot blame us--as to the Count, he seems
quite _content_."

Mrs. Falconer's accent seemed to imply something more than _content_; but
this was not a proper time or place to contest the point. The husband
passed on, saying to himself "Absurd!" The wife went on, saying
"Obstinate!"

Count Altenberg had led his partner to a seat, and as soon as he quitted
her, the young ladies of her party all flattered her, in congratulatory
whispers: one observed that there was certainly something very particular
in Count Altenberg's manner, when he first spoke to Miss Georgiana
Falconer; another remarked that he always spoke to Miss Georgiana Falconer
with emotion and embarrassment; a third declared that her eye was fixed
upon the Count, and she saw him several times change colour--all, in short,
agreed that the Count's heart was Miss Georgiana Falconer's devoted prize.
She the while, with well-affected incredulity and secret complacency, half
repressed and half encouraged these remarks by frequent exclamations of
"La! how can you think so!--Why will you say such things!--Dear! how can
you be so tormenting--so silly, now, to have such fancies!--But did he
really change colour?"--In love with her! She wondered how such an idea
could ever come into their heads--she should, for her part, never have
dreamed of such a thing--indeed, she was positive they were mistaken. Count
Altenberg in love with her!--Oh, no, there could be nothing in it.

Whilst she spoke, her eyes followed the Count, who, quite unconscious
of his danger, undisturbed by any idea of Miss Georgiana Falconer and
love, two ideas which probably never had entered his mind together, was
carelessly walking down the room, his thoughts apparently occupied with
the passing scene. He had so much the habit of observing men and manners,
without appearing to observe them, that, under an air of gaiety, he carried
his understanding, as it were, incognito. His observation glanced on all
the company as he passed. Miss Georgiana Falconer lost sight of him as he
reached the end of the saloon; he disappeared in the antechamber.

Soon afterwards a report reached her that the Percy family were arrived;
that Count Altenberg had been particularly struck by the sight of one of
the Miss Percys, and had been overheard to whisper to his friend Colonel
Bremen, "Very like the picture! but still more _mind_ in the countenance!"

At hearing this, Miss Georgiana Falconer grew first red and then turned
pale; Mrs. Falconer, though scarcely less confounded, never changed a
muscle of her face, but leaving every body to choose their various comments
upon the Count's words, and simply saying, "Are the Percys come at last?"
she won her easy way through the crowd, whispering to young Petcalf as
she passed, "Now is your time, Petcalf, my good creature--Georgiana is
disengaged."

Before Mrs. Falconer got to the antechamber, another report met her, "that
the Percys had been overturned, and had been terribly hurt."

"Overturned!--terribly hurt!--Good Heavens!" cried Mrs. Falconer, as she
entered the antechamber. But the next person told her they were not in the
least hurt--still pressing forward, she exclaimed, "Mrs. Percy! Where is
Mrs. Percy? My dear madam! what has happened? Come the wrong road, did
you?--broken bridge--And were you really overturned?"

"No, no, only obliged to get out and walk a little way."

"Oh! I am sorry--But I am so glad to see you all safe!--When it grew late,
I grew so uneasy!" Then turning towards Caroline, "Miss Caroline Percy, I
am sure, though I had never, till now, the pleasure of seeing her."

An introduction of Caroline by Mrs. Percy, in due form, took place. Mrs.
Falconer next recognized Mr. Percy, declared he did not look a day older
than when she had seen him fifteen years before--then recurring to the
ladies, "But, my dear Mrs. Percy, are you sure that your shoes are not
wet through?--Oh! my dear madam, Miss Percy's are terribly wet! and Miss
Caroline's!--Positively, the young ladies must go to my dressing-room--the
shoes must be dried." Mrs. Falconer said that perhaps her daughters could
accommodate the Miss Percys with others.

It was in vain that Rosamond protested her shoes were not wet, and that her
sister's were perfectly dry; a few specks on their white justified Mrs.
Falconer's apprehensions.

"Where is my Arabella? If there was any body I could venture to trouble--"

Count Altenberg instantly offered his services. "Impossible to trouble you,
Count! But since you are so very good, perhaps you could find one of my
daughters for me--Miss Falconer--if you are so kind, sir--Georgiana I am
afraid is dancing."

Miss Falconer was found, and despatched with the Miss Percys, in spite
of all they could say to the contrary, to Mrs. Falconer's dressing-room.
Rosamond was permitted, without much difficulty, to do as she pleased; but
Mrs. Falconer's infinite fears lest Caroline should catch her death of cold
could not be appeased, till she had submitted to change her shoes.

"Caroline!" said Rosamond, in a low voice, "Caroline! do not put on those
shoes--they are too large--you will never be able to dance in them."

"I know that--but I am content. It is better to yield than to debate the
point any longer," said Caroline.

When they returned to the ball-room, Count Altenberg was in earnest
conversation with Mr. Percy; but Mrs. Falconer observed that the Count saw
Miss Caroline Percy the moment she re-appeared.

"Now is not it extraordinary," thought she, "when Georgiana dances so well!
is infinitely more fashionable, and so charmingly dressed!--What can strike
him so much in this girl's appearance?"

It was not her appearance that struck him. He was too well accustomed to
see beauty and fashion in public places to be caught at first sight by a
handsome face, or by a young lady's exhibition of her personal graces at
a ball; but a favourable impression had been made on his mind by what he
had previously heard of Miss Caroline Percy's conduct and character: her
appearance confirmed this impression precisely, because she had not the
practised air of a professed beauty, because she did not seem in the
least to be thinking of herself, or to expect admiration. This was really
uncommon, and, therefore, it fixed the attention of a man like Count
Altenberg. He asked Caroline to dance; she declined dancing. Mr. Temple
engaged Rosamond, and the moment he led her away, the Count availed himself
of her place, and a conversation commenced, which soon made Mrs. Falconer
regret that Caroline had declined dancing. Though the Count was a stranger
to the Percy family, yet there were many subjects of common interest of
which he knew how to avail himself. He began by speaking of Mr. Alfred
Percy, of the pleasure he had had in becoming acquainted with him, of
the circumstance which led to this acquaintance: then he passed, to Lord
Oldborough--to M. de Tourville--to the shipwreck. He paused at Percy-hall,
for he felt for those to whom he was speaking. They understood him, but
they did not avoid the subject; he then indulged himself in the pleasure of
repeating some of the expressions of attachment to their old landlord, and
of honest affection and gratitude, which he had heard from the peasants in
the village.

Mrs. Falconer moved away the moment she foresaw this part of the
conversation, but she was only so far removed as to prevent the necessity
of her taking any part in it, or of appearing to hear what it might be
awkward for her to hear, considering her intimacy with Sir Robert Percy.
She began talking to an old lady about her late illness, of which she
longed to hear from her own lips all the particulars; and whilst the old
lady told her case, Mrs. Falconer, with eyes fixed upon her, and making,
at proper intervals, all the appropriate changes of countenance requisite
to express tender sympathy, alarm, horror, astonishment, and joyful
congratulation, contrived, at the same time, through the whole progress
of fever, and the administration of half the medicines in the London
Pharmacopoeia, to hear every thing that was said by Count Altenberg,
and not to lose a word that was uttered by Caroline. Mrs. Falconer was
particularly anxious to know what would be said about the picture in the
gallery at Percy-hall, with which the Count had been so much charmed. When
he got into the gallery, Mrs. Falconer listened with breathless eagerness,
yet still smiling on the old lady's never-ending history of her
convalescence, and of a shawl undoubtedly Turkish, with the true,
inestimable, inimitable, little border.

Not a word was said of the picture--but a pause implied more to alarm Mrs.
Falconer than could have been expressed by the most flattering compliment.

Mrs. Falconer wondered why supper was so late. She sent to order that it
might be served as soon as possible; but her man, or her gentleman cook,
was not a person to be hurried. Three successive messengers were sent in
vain. He knew his importance, and preserved his dignity. The caramel was
not ready, and nothing could make him dispense with its proper appearance.

How much depended on this caramel! How much, of which the cook never
dreamed! How much Mrs. Falconer suffered during this half hour, and
suffered with a smiling countenance! How much, with a scowling brow, Miss
Georgiana Falconer made poor Petcalf endure!

Every thing conspired to discomfit Mrs. Falconer. She saw the manner in
which all the principal gentry in the country, one after another, expressed
satisfaction at meeting the Percy family. She saw the regard and respect
with which they were addressed, notwithstanding their loss of fortune and
station. It was quite astonishing to Mrs. Falconer. Every body in the
rooms, except her own set of town friends, seemed _so strangely_ interested
about this family. "How provoking that I was obliged to ask them here!--And
Count Altenberg sees and hears all this!"

Yes--all this confirmed, by the testimony of their equals in rank, the
favourable ideas he had first received of the Percys from their inferiors
and dependants. Every person who spoke to or of Caroline--and he heard many
speak of her who had known her from childhood--showed affection in their
countenance and manner.

At length, supper was announced, and Mrs. Falconer requested Count
Altenberg would take Lady Frances Arlington into the supper-room. Miss
Georgiana Falconer was anxious to sit as near as possible to her dear Lady
Frances, and this was happily accomplished.

The Count was more than usually agreeable; but whether this arose from his
desire to please the ladies who sat beside him, or those who sat
opposite to him, those to whom he was in politeness bound to address his
conversation, or those whose attention he might hope it would attract, were
questions of difficult solution.

As they were returning into the ball-room, Rosamond watched her
opportunity, made her way along a passage which led to Mrs. Falconer's
dressing-room, seized her sister's shoes, returned with the prize before
Caroline reached the antechamber, and, unseen by all, made her put them
on--"Now promise me not to refuse to dance, if you are asked again."

Count Altenberg engaged Miss Georgiana Falconer the first two dances--when
these were finished, he asked Caroline to dance, and Mrs. Falconer, who
dreaded the renewal of conversation between them, and who knew nothing of
Rosamond's counter-manoeuvre about the shoes, was surprised and rejoiced
when she saw Caroline comply, and suffer herself to be led out by Count
Altenberg. But Miss Georgiana, who had observed that Rosamond danced well,
had fears--the mother's hopes were disappointed, the daughter's fears were
justified. Caroline showed all the capability of dancing without being a
dancer, and it certainly did not escape the Count's observation that she
possessed what is most desirable in female accomplishments, the power to
excel without the wish to display. Immediately after she had finished
these dances, the favour of her hand was solicited by a certain Colonel
Spandrill. Colonel Spandrill, celebrated for his fashionable address and
personal accomplishments, had been the hoped-for partner of many rival
ladies, and his choice excited no small degree of emotion. However, it was
settled that he only danced with Miss Percy because Mrs. Falconer had made
it her particular request. One of these ladies declared she had overheard
that request; Colonel Spandrill then was safe from all blame, but the full
fire of their resentment was directed against poor Caroline. Every feature
of her face was criticised, and even the minuti of her dress. They all
allowed that she was handsome, but each found some different fault with
her style of beauty. It was curious to observe how this secondary class of
young ladies, who had without discomfiture or emotion seen Caroline the
object of Count Altenberg's attention, were struck with indignation the
moment they suspected her of pleasing Colonel Spandrill. Envy seldom takes
two steps at once: it is always excited by the fear of losing the proximate
object of ambition; it never exists without some mixture of hope as well
as of fear. These ladies having no hope of captivating Count Altenberg,
Caroline did not then appear to be their rival; but now that they dreaded
her competition with a man whom they had hopes of winning, they pulled her
to pieces without mercy.

The Miss Falconers and their quadrille-set were resting themselves,
whilst this country dance was going on. Miss Georgiana was all the time
endeavouring to engage Count Altenberg in conversation. By all the modern
arts of coquetry, so insipid to a man of the world, so contemptible to a
man of sense, she tried to recall the attention of the Count. Politeness
obliged him to seem to listen, and he endeavoured to keep up that kind of
conversation which is suited to a ball-room; but he relapsed continually
into reverie, till at last, provoked by his absence of mind, Miss
Georgiana, unable to conceal her vexation, unjustly threw the blame upon
her health. She complained of the headache, of heat, of cold, of country
dances--such barbarous things!--How could any one bear any thing but
quadrilles? Then the music--the band was horrid!--they played vastly too
fast--shocking! there was no such thing as keeping time--did not Count
Altenberg think so?

Count Altenberg was at that moment beating time with his foot, in exact
cadence to Miss Caroline Percy's dancing: Miss Falconer saw this, but not
till she had uttered her question, not till it had been observed by all her
companions. Lady Frances Arlington half smiled, and half a smile instantly
appeared along a whole line of young ladies. Miss Georgiana suddenly became
sensible that she was exposed to the ridicule or sarcastic pity of those
who but an hour before had flattered her in the grossest manner: she had
expected to produce a great effect at this ball--she saw another preferred.
Her spirits sunk, and even the powers of affectation failed. The struggle
between the fine lady and the woman ceased. Passion always conquers art
at a _coup de main_. When any strong emotion of the soul is excited,
the natural character, temper, and manners seldom fail to break through
all that is factitious--those who had seen Miss Georgiana Falconer only
through the veil of affectation were absolutely astonished at the change
that appeared when it was thrown aside. By the Count the metamorphosis
was unnoticed, for he was intent on another object; but by many of the
spectators it was beheld with open surprise, or secret contempt. She
exhibited at this moment the picture of a disappointed coquette--the spasm
of jealousy had seized her heart; and, unable to conceal or endure the pain
in this convulsion of mind, she forgot all grace and decorum. Her mother
from afar saw the danger at this crisis, and came to her relief. The danger
in Mrs. Falconer's opinion was, that the young lady's want of temper should
be seen by Count Altenberg; she therefore carried him off to a distant part
of the room, to show him, as she said, "a bassoon player, who was the exact
image of Hogarth's enraged musician."

In the mean time Colonel Spandrill and Caroline had finished their dance:
and the colonel, who made it a principle to engross the attention of
the prettiest woman in the room, was now, after his manner, paying his
adorations to his fair partner. Promising himself that he should be able to
recede or advance as he thought proper, he used a certain happy ambiguity
of phrase, which, according to the manner in which it is understood,
or rather according to the tone and look with which it is accompanied,
says every thing--or nothing. With prudent caution, he began with darts,
flames, wounds, and anguish; words which every military man holds himself
privileged to use towards every fine woman he meets. Darts, flames, wounds,
and anguish, were of no avail. The colonel went on, as far as bright
eyes--bewitching smiles--and heavenly grace. Still without effect. With
astonishment he perceived that the girl, who looked as if she had never
heard that she was handsome, received the full fire of his flattery with
the composure of a veteran inured to public admiration.

Mrs. Falconer was almost as much surprised and disappointed by this as
the colonel could be. She had purposely introduced the gallant Colonel
Spandrill to the Miss Percys, in hopes that Caroline's head might be
_affected_ by flattery; and that she might not then retain all that
dignity of manner which, as Mrs. Falconer had sense enough to see, was her
distinguishing charm in the eyes of the Count. Frustrated, and dreading
every instant that with all her address she should not be able to manage
her Georgiana's temper, Mrs. Falconer became excessively impatient for the
departure of the Percy family.

"Mr. Falconer!" cried she; "Commissioner! Mrs. Percy ordered her carriage
a considerable time ago. They have a great way to return, and a dreadful
road--I am uneasy about them--do pray be so good to see what detains her
carriage."

The commissioner went out of the room, and a few minutes afterwards
returned, and taking Mrs. Falconer aside, said, "I have something to tell
you, my dear, that will surprise you--indeed I can scarcely believe it.
Long as I have known Lord Oldborough, I never knew him do, or think of
doing such a thing--and he ill--at least ill enough with the gout, for an
excuse--an excuse he thought sufficient for the whole county--and there are
people of so much more consequence--I protest I cannot understand it."

"Understand what, commissioner?--Will you tell me what has happened, and
you may be as much surprised as you please afterwards? Lord Oldborough has
the gout," added she, in an accent which expressed "_Well, all the world
knows that._"

"Lord Oldborough's own confidential man Rodney, you know--"

"Well, well, Rodney I do know--what of him?"

"He is here--I have seen him this instant--from his lord, with a message to
Mr. Percy, to let him know that there are apartments prepared for him
and all his family at Clermont-park; and that he insists upon their not
returning this night to the Hills, lest the ladies should be tired."

"Lord Oldborough!" repeated Mrs. Falconer; "Lord Oldborough!--the
ladies!--Clermont-park! where none but persons of the first distinction are
invited!"

"Ay, now you are surprised," cried the commissioner.

"Surprised! beyond all power of expression," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Beyond all power of dissimulation," she should have said.

"Count Altenberg, too, going to hand them to their carriage--going to
Clermont-park with them!--I wish to Heaven," said Mrs. Falconer to herself,
"I had never given this unfortunate ball!"

Mrs. Falconer was mistaken in this idea. It was not the circumstance of
meeting Caroline at a ball that made this impression on Count Altenberg;
wherever he had seen her, if he had had opportunity of conversing, and of
observing the dignity and simplicity of her manner, the same effect would
have been produced--but in fact Mrs. Falconer's fears, and her daughter's
jealousy, had much magnified the truth. Count Altenberg had not, as they
fancied, fallen desperately in love at first sight with Caroline--he had
only been pleased and interested sufficiently to make him desirous to see
more of her. Caroline, though so much the object of jealousy, had not the
slightest idea that she had made a conquest--she simply thought the count's
conversation agreeable, and she was glad that she should see him again at
breakfast the next morning.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Mr. and Mrs. Percy accepted of Lord Oldborough's invitation. They found
apartments prepared for them at Clermont-park, and servants ready to
attend, with the officious promptitude with which a great man's domestics
usually wait upon those who are supposed to stand high in their master's
favour.

During his illness Lord Oldborough had always breakfasted in his own room;
but his lordship appeared at the breakfast-table the morning after the
ball, ready to receive his guests. Nothing could be more gracious, more
polite, more kind, than his reception of Mr. Percy and his family. From the
moment he was introduced to the wife and daughters of his friend, he seemed
to throw aside the reserve and coldness of his manner--to forget at once
the statesman and the minister, the affairs of Europe and the intrigues
of the cabinet--to live entirely for the present moment and the present
company. The company consisted of the Percy family, Count Altenberg,
and Mr. Temple. It was a common practice with Lord Oldborough to set
conversation a-going, then to become silent, and to retire to his own
thoughts--he would just throw the ball, and leave others to run for it.
But now he condescended at least to join in the pursuit, though apparently
without ambition to obtain distinction in the race. After breakfast he
showed the ladies into his library; and, as he was himself disabled,
requested Mr. Temple to take down such books or prints as he thought
most worthy of their attention. Literature had been neglected, perhaps
undervalued, by Lord Oldborough, since he had devoted himself to politics;
but he could at will recall the classical stores of his youth; and on
modern books his quick eye and ear, joined to his strong and rapid
judgment, enabled him to decide better than many who make it the only
business of their lives to read. Even Mr. Percy, who knew him best, was
surprised; and still more surprised was Mr. Temple, who had seen him in
varieties of company, some of the highest rank and fashion both in wit and
literature, where his lordship had appeared either absent of mind or a
silent listener; but he now exerted those powers of conversation which he
usually suffered to lie dormant. Instead of waiting in proud expectation
that those who were in his company should prove their claims to his
attention, he now produced his own intellectual treasures; evidently not
for the vanity of display, but to encourage his guests to produce those
talents which he seemed to take it for granted that they possessed. It
appeared to be his sole object, his pride and pleasure, to pay attention to
the wife and daughters of his friend; and to show them and him to advantage
to an illustrious foreigner.

"Yes," said he, apart to Count Altenberg, "I am proud to show you a
specimen of a cultivated independent country gentleman and his family."

With his usual penetration, Lord Oldborough soon discerned the
characteristics of each of the ladies of this family--the good sense and
good breeding of Mrs. Percy, the wit and generous simplicity of Rosamond,
the magnanimity and the superior understanding of Caroline. As instances of
these different qualities appeared, his quick and brightening eye marked
his approbation, sometimes by a glance at Count Altenberg, by a nod to Mr.
Temple, or by a congratulatory smile as he turned to Mr. Percy.

"I now comprehend," said his lordship, "why Mr. Percy could never be
induced to take a part in public business. Ladies, you have done a great
injury to your country--you have made this gentleman too happy in domestic
life."

Lord Oldborough spoke this in a tone of raillery, and with a smile--but
the smile was succeeded by a deep sigh, and a dark gloom of countenance.
At this moment one of his secretaries, Mr. Shaw, came in with papers to be
signed. The minister reappeared. Lord Oldborough's mind turned instantly
to business; he withdrew to a table apart, sat down, and began to look over
the first paper that was laid before him. Mr. Percy rang the bell, and
something was said about not intruding on his lordship's time--he looked
up: "Mr. Temple, you are free. Mr. Shaw shall finish whatever letters it
is necessary should be written this morning. You shall have the pleasure
of being with your friends. It is a pleasure you deserve, sir, and can
appreciate. Mrs. Percy expressed a wish to see the grounds--you will show
them to these ladies. I am a prisoner still," said his lordship, looking
down at his gouty hand, "and always shall be a prisoner," added he, turning
his eye upon the papers which Mr. Shaw held.

The ladies, accompanied by Mr. Temple, and by Count Altenberg, went out to
walk. Mr. Percy stayed one moment to express his sense of the extraordinary
politeness and kindness with which Lord Oldborough had honoured him and his
family.

"You owe me no thanks, my dear sir. Kindness can be repaid only by
kindness. It is a species of debt, which in the course of my life I have
seldom been called upon to pay."

This was said not in a voice either of sentiment or of compliment, but
rather in an austere tone, and with a stern countenance of conquered
emotion. Without looking at Mr. Percy, he received and answered the
farewell shake of the hand; his lips were instantly after strongly
compressed; and, taking up his pen, the man was again absorbed in the
minister.

Mr. Percy joined the party who were going to walk in the park. Count
Altenberg had been unusually silent in Lord Oldborough's company: with the
becoming deference of a young man, in the presence of one superior in age,
and in high station, he had listened, eager to learn, instead of impatient
to talk. Attention of course now turned upon him, as the stranger and the
foreigner.

With the same perfect taste and good-breeding with which he knew how to pay
honour due, he received it, and appeared as much at his ease, whether he
was in the shade or the light, whether he was unnoticed or the object of
general attention. He had that air of self-possession, which characterizes
a person secure of his own resources, and not afraid to produce his
abilities.

The conversation turned at first upon the beauties of nature--Clermont-park
was one of the really magnificent places in England which an Englishman may
feel proud to show to a foreigner.

Count Altenberg politely and justly observed how different the country
seats of our nobility are from the ruinous and comfortless _chateaux_ of
most of the French nobility.

Clermont-park, however, was not new to the count. Commissioner Falconer
had the day after his arrival shown him every thing that was to be seen:
his attention, therefore, as they pursued their walk, was not so much
distracted by external objects as to prevent him from wishing to converse.
Finding that Mr. Percy had travelled, he spoke of Switzerland and Italy;
and, without any of the jargon of a connoisseur, showed that he felt with
sensibility and enthusiasm the beautiful and sublime. It soon appeared that
he had seen various countries, not merely with the eye of a painter and a
poet, but of a philosophical traveller, who can allow for the differences
of national taste, and discern how its variations are influenced by
climate, education, government, and local circumstances. In his rapid
panorama of foreign countries, he showed variety of knowledge, and without
illiberal prejudice against any nation, an amiable predilection for his
native country. Next to his own country he preferred England, which, as he
said, by the mother's side, he might call his own. She had early instilled
into him an admiration for our free constitution, and a love of our
domestic habits; but he had never before visited this country, and he was
particularly desirous to obtain an accurate knowledge of England, and of
the manners and modes of life of its inhabitants. He seemed thus eager to
obtain information, not merely to gratify a cursory or selfish curiosity,
but with a view to the future, and with a hope of doing permanent good.
It was clear that he was not only a philosophical but a benevolent
traveller, to whom nothing that concerns his fellow-creatures is foreign
or indifferent. His treasuring up all he had seen abroad, that could be
useful at home, reminded Caroline of Colonel Hungerford; but she observed
that Count Altenberg's views were more enlarged; he was unbiassed by
professional habits; his sphere of action was higher; heir to extensive
property, with all the foreign rights of territorial dominion hereditarily
his; and with a probability of obtaining the political power of ministerial
station; plans, which in other circumstances might have been romantic,
with Count Altenberg's prospects and abilities, were within the bounds of
sound judgment and actual practicability. But whatever these intentions
might be, they were only to be inferred from his conversation; he scarcely
spoke of himself, or of his own designs; whatever he was led to say on
such subjects, he seemed, immediately after he had said it, to feel as an
impropriety, not justified by the slight interest which the acquaintance of
a few hours could inspire.

He changed the conversation by asking some questions about a celebrated
English writer. In return for the information Mr. Percy gave him, he spoke
of some recent foreign publications--related several anecdotes of literary
foreigners. His anecdotes were interesting, because, in each, there was
something characteristic of the individual, or illustrative of some general
principle of human nature. To gratify Mr. Percy, the Count spoke of some
public events of which he had had means of obtaining information. He had
not neglected any of the opportunities he enjoyed, and whether he talked of
civil or military affairs, he showed the same _efficient_ knowledge, and
the same superior ability.

Caroline, leaning on her father's arm, listened with a countenance full of
intelligence, animation, and sympathy; she looked alternately at the Count
and at her father, whose satisfaction she saw and enjoyed. Feeling that
he was appreciated by the father, inspired by the charms of the daughter,
and excited by the idea he had formed of her character, Count Altenberg
had indeed been uncommonly agreeable, entertaining, and eloquent. During
this walk, though Caroline said but little, yet that little, to a man of
the Count's discernment, was sufficient to show good judgment and great
capacity. This increased the admiration and interest which her beauty and
manners, and all he had heard of her conduct, created.

It is said to be one of the characteristics of genius, that it is
able quickly to discover and elicit genius, wherever it exists. It
is certain that with the celerity of intuition, of sympathy, or of
practised penetration, Count Altenberg perceived Caroline's intellectual
superiority. He had been, at first, curious to discover whether her mental
qualifications were equal to her extraordinary personal beauty; but he
had soon forgotten his intention of trying her abilities, in anxiety to
convince her of his own. The whole turn and style of his conversation
now proved, more than any compliment could possibly have shown, the high
opinion he had of her understanding, and of the elevation of her mind. A
woman may always judge of the real estimation in which she is held, by the
conversation which is addressed to her.

All this time, where were Rosamond, Mrs. Percy, and Mr. Temple? Mr.
Temple had taken them to see a fine view; Mr. Percy proposed to sit down
and quietly wait their return; Caroline and the Count seemed to have no
objection to oblige him, and they placed themselves under a spreading
beech. They had not been seated many minutes, before they were interrupted
by the appearance of Commissioner Falconer, who came, by a cross path, from
the house.

"At last I have found you. What a prodigious walk you have taken!" cried
the commissioner, wiping his forehead. "But where's Mrs. Percy and the rest
of your party? I have so walked to catch you--rode over on purpose to pay
my compliments to the ladies before they return home--and I come charg
d'affaires from Mrs. Falconer to Mrs. Percy. I must see Mrs. Percy--Oh!
here she is, coming down the hill--ay, from the _point of view_--Mercy! how
you have walked: I am not equal to the _grand tour_--it kills me. But I am
so sorry I was not here time enough to do the honours of Clermont-park,
as Lord Oldborough is confined. Who has Mrs. Percy for her cicerone?
Ha! Mr. Temple--I thought he was always so busy--deputed by Lord
Oldborough--really!--Hum--I hope Lord Oldborough did not conceive that
there was any want of _empressement_ on my part--I should have been here
a full hour sooner, but that my ladies were so late at breakfast after
sitting up--and I thought your ladies might have been fatigued too--but
Miss Caroline Percy, I see, fresh as a rose--"

The commissioner then, as if half in jest, half in earnest, paid Caroline a
profusion of compliments upon her appearance the preceding night--numbered
on his fingers the conquests she had made, and the hearts she had broken.
Mrs. Percy, Rosamond, and Mr. Temple came up; and as soon as they had
expressed their raptures on the beauty of this view, the commissioner
presented his note from Mrs. Falconer to Mrs. Percy, to which, he said,
he was most anxious to be the bearer of a favourable answer, as he knew
that he should otherwise be ill-received at home, and the disappointment
would be great. The note contained a pressing invitation to a play, which
the young people at Falconer-court had it in contemplation to represent.
Whether it was to be Zara or Cato, they had not yet positively decided--for
Cato they were in terrible distress for a Marcia--could Miss Caroline Percy
be prevailed upon to try Marcia? She would look the part so well, and, no
doubt, act it so well. Or if she preferred Zara, Miss Georgiana Falconer
would, with pleasure, take the part of the confidante. Dresses in great
forwardness, Turkish or Roman, convertible, in a few hours' notice--should
wait Miss Percy's decision.

"Well, my dear Caroline, what say you?" cried Mrs. Percy.

Caroline was going to answer.

"No, no, don't answer yet," interrupted the commissioner: "let me add,
what I find Mrs. Falconer took it for granted I would say, that there can
be no possible difficulty or inconvenience about the goings and comings,
and horses and carriages, and beds, and all that sort of thing--for
our horses and carriages can have nothing to do whilst the ladies are
rehearsing--shall attend you any day--any hour--and beds we can contrive:
so, I beseech you, let none of these vulgar sublunary considerations
deprive us of a Zara or a Marcia--But say, which shall it be?--Which
character, my charming cousin, will you do us the honour and pleasure to
take?"

Count Altenberg advanced a step, full of eager expectation. When he heard
Caroline pronounce, with great politeness, a refusal, for the first moment
he looked disappointed, but the next seemed satisfied and pleased. It would
have highly gratified and interested him to have seen Caroline act either
the sublime or the tender heroine, but he preferred seeing her support her
own character with modest dignity.

Commissioner Falconer pleaded and pressed in vain; Caroline was steady in
her refusal, though the manner of it was so gentle, that every instant he
thought he should vanquish her reluctance. At length he turned from the
ladies to the gentlemen for assistance.

"Mr. Temple, I am sure you will join my entreaties--Count Altenberg--"

Count Altenberg "would not presume to ask a favour, which had been refused
to the commissioner and to Mrs. Falconer." Caroline understood, and gave
him credit for his politeness.

"Then, if I must give up this point," said the commissioner, "at least do
not let me return disappointed in every respect--let me hope that you will
all favour us with your company at our play."

This invitation was accepted with many thanks.

"And, remember, you must not run away from us that night," added
the commissioner. "Mrs. Falconer will have reason to be jealous of
Clermont-park, if she finds that it draws our friends and relations away
from Falconer-court."

The carriage, which had been ordered to the great gate of the park, was now
waiting there, and the commissioner took leave of his relations, with
many shakes of the hand and many expressions of regret. Count Altenberg
continued talking to Caroline till the last moment; and after he had handed
her into the carriage, as he took leave of Mr. Percy, he said that he had
to thank him and his family for some of the most agreeable among the many
agreeable hours he had passed since he came to England.

On their way home, this happy family-party eagerly talked over every thing
and every body that had interested them--first and chiefly they spoke
of Count Altenberg. Caroline said how often, during their walk, she had
regretted her mother's and sister's absence. She recollected and reminded
her father of some of the striking circumstances they had heard, and Mr.
Percy and she repeated so many curious and interesting anecdotes, so many
just observations and noble sentiments, that Mrs. Percy and Rosamond were
quite charmed with the Count. Rosamond, however, was surprised by the
openness and ease with which Caroline praised and talked of this gentleman.

"I will say nothing," thought she; "for I am determined to be prudent this
time. But certainly here is no danger that her love should unsought be won.
Only this I may and must think, that Caroline cannot, without affectation,
avoid seeing that she has made a conquest."

Mistaken again, Rosamond--Caroline had neither seen nor suspected it. Count
Altenberg's gratitude for the hospitality shown to his countrymen at the
time of the shipwreck, his recent acquaintance with her brother Alfred, and
all he had heard of her father from the grateful tenants at Percy-hall,
accounted, as Caroline justly thought, for the eagerness he had shown to be
introduced to her family. His conversing so much with her, she thought, was
natural, as he was a stranger to most of the company, and had some subjects
of conversation in common with her and her family. Caroline was not apt to
imagine admiration in every word or look; she was not expert in construing
every compliment into a declaration or an innuendo of love.

His conversation, during their walk, had been perfectly free from all
compliment. It had been on subjects so interesting, that she had been
carried on without having had time to think of love. A good and great
character had opened to her view, and she had been so absorbed in sympathy,
that though she had thought of nothing but Count Altenberg, she had never
thought of him with any reference to herself.

The morning after their return home, Count Altenberg came to the Hills,
accompanied by Mr. Temple. They stayed till it was late; for the Count
seemed to forget the hour of the day, till reminded of it by Mr. Temple.
Caroline, in her own family, at her home, pleased Count Altenberg
particularly. The interest he felt about her increased, and he afterwards
took or made frequent opportunities of calling at the Hills: his
conversation was generally addressed to Mr. Percy, but he observed
Caroline with peculiar attention--and Rosamond was confirmed in her
opinion. A few weeks passed in this manner, while the play was preparing
at Falconer-court. But before we go to the play, let us take a peep behind
the scenes, and inquire what is and has been doing by the Falconer family.
Even they who are used to the ennui subsequent to dissipation, even they
who have experienced the vicissitudes of coquetry, the mortifications of
rivalship, and the despair of disappointed vanity, can scarcely conceive
the complication of disagreeable ideas and emotions with which Miss
Georgiana Falconer awoke the morning after the magnificent ball.

The image of her beautiful rival disturbed her morning dreams, and stood
before her fancy the moment she opened her eyes. Wakening, she endeavoured
to recollect and compare all that had passed the preceding night; but there
had been such tumult in her mind, that she had only a vague remembrance of
the transactions: she had a confused idea that the Count was in love, and
that he was not in love with her: she had fears that, during the heat of
competition, she had betrayed unbecoming emotion; but gradually, habitual
vanity predominated; her hopes brightened; she began to fancy that the
impression made by her rival might be easily effaced, and that they
should see no more of the fair phantom. That branch of the Percy family,
she recollected, were to be considered only as decayed gentry; and she
flattered herself that they would necessarily and immediately sink again
into that obscurity from which her mother's ill-fated civility had raised
them. Her mother, she knew, had invited these Percys against her will, and
would be particularly careful on account of Sir Robert Percy (and Arabella)
not to show them any further attention. Thus things would, in a day or two,
fall again into their proper train. "No doubt the Count will call this
morning, to know how we do after the ball."

So she rose, and resolved to dress herself with the most becoming
negligence.

Very different was the result of her experienced mother's reflections. Mrs.
Falconer saw that her daughter's chance of the Count was now scarcely worth
considering; that it must be given up at once, to avoid the danger of utter
ruin to other speculations of a more promising kind. The mother knew the
unmanageable violence of her daughter's temper: she had seen her Georgiana
expose herself the preceding night at the ball to her particular friends,
and Mrs. Falconer knew enough of the world to dread reports originating
from particular friends; she dreaded, also, that on some future similar
occasion, the young lady's want of command over her jealousy should produce
some terribly ridiculous scene, confirm the report that she had an unhappy
passion for Count Altenberg, stigmatize her as a forlorn maiden, and ruin
her chance of any other establishment. In this instance she had been misled
by her own and her daughter's vanity. It was mortifying, to be sure, to
find that she had been wrong; and still more provoking to be obliged to
acknowledge that Mr. Falconer was right; but in the existing circumstances
it was absolutely necessary, and Mrs. Falconer, with a species of
satisfaction, returned to her former habits of thinking, and resumed
certain old schemes, from which the arrival of the Count had diverted her
imagination. She expected the two Mr. Clays at Falconer-court the next day.
Either of them, she thought, might be a good match for Georgiana. To be
sure, it was said that French Clay had gaming debts to a large amount upon
his hands--this was against him; but, in his favour, there was the chance
of his elder brother's dying unmarried, and leaving him Clay-hall. Or,
take it the other way, and suppose English Clay to be made the object--he
was one of the men who professedly have a horror of being taken in to
marry; yet no men are more likely "to run into the danger to avoid the
apprehension." Suppose the worst, and that neither of the Clays could be
worked to any good purpose, Mrs. Falconer had still in reserve that _pis
aller_ Petcalf, whose father, the good general, was at Bath, with the
gout in his stomach; and if he should die, young Petcalf would pop into
possession of the general's lodge in _Asia Minor_ [Footnote: A district in
England so called.]: not so fine a place, to be sure, nor an establishment
so well appointed as Clay-hall; but still with a nabob's fortune a great
deal might be done--and Georgiana might make Petcalf throw down the lodge
and build. So at the worst she might settle very comfortably with young
Petcalf, whom she could manage as she pleased, provided she never let him
see her _penchant_ for Count Altenberg. Mrs. Falconer determined to turn
the tables dexterously, and to make it appear that the Count admired
Georgiana, but saw she could not be induced to leave England. "We must,"
said she to herself, "persuade English Clay that I would not for any
consideration give my daughter to a foreigner."

In consequence of these plans and reflections, Mrs. Falconer began her new
system of operations, by writing that note full of superfluous civility to
Mrs. Percy, with which Commissioner Falconer had been charged: the pressing
Caroline to play Zara or Marcia, the leaving to her the choice of dresses
and characters, the assurance that Miss Georgiana Falconer would take
the confidante's part with pleasure, were all strokes of Mrs. Falconer's
policy. By these means she thought she could most effectually do away all
suspicion of her own or her daughter's jealousy of Miss Caroline Percy.
Mrs. Falconer foresaw that, in all probability, Caroline would decline
acting; but if she had accepted, Mrs. Falconer would have been sincerely
pleased, confident, as she was, that Caroline's inferiority to her
Georgiana, who was an accomplished actress, would be conspicuously
manifest.

As soon as Mrs. Percy's answer, and Caroline's refusal, arrived, Mrs.
Falconer went to her daughter Georgiana's apartment, who was giving
directions to her maid, Lydia Sharpe, about some part of Zara's dress.

"My dear," said Mrs. Falconer, looking carelessly at the dress, "you won't
want a very expensive dress for Zara."

"Indeed, ma'am, I shall," cried Georgiana: "Zara will be nothing, unless
she is well dressed."

"Well, my dear, you must manage as well as you can with Lydia Sharpe.
Your last court-dress surely she can make do vastly well, with a little
alteration to give it a Turkish air."

"Oh! dear me, ma'am!--a little alteration!" cried Lydia: "no alteration
upon the face of Heaven's earth, that I could devise from this till
Christmas, would give it a Turkish air. You don't consider, nor conceive,
ma'am, how _skimping_ these here court-trains are now--for say the
length might answer, its length without any manner of breadth, you know,
ma'am--look, ma'am, a mere strip!--only two breadths of three quarters bare
each--which gives no folds in nature, nor drapery, nor majesty, which, for
a Turkish queen, is indispensably requisite, I presume."

"Another breadth or two would make it full enough, and cotton velvet will
do, and come cheap," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Cotton velvet!" cried Miss Georgiana. "I would not wear cotton
velvet--like the odious, shabby Miss Chattertons, who are infamous for it."

"But on the stage, what eye could detect it, child?" said Mrs. Falconer.

"Eye, ma'am! no, to be sure, at that distance: but the first touch to any
body that understands velvets would betray it--and them that is on the
stage along with Miss Georgiana, or behind the scenes, will detect it.
And I understood the ladies was to sup in their dresses, and on such an
occasion I presumed you would like Miss Georgiana to have an entire _cap a
pie_ new dress, as the Lady Arlingtons and every body has seen her appear
in this, and has it by heart, I may say--and the Count too, who, of course,
will expect, to see Zara spick and span--But I leave it all to your own
better judgment, ma'am--I am only just mentioning--"

"All I know is, that the play will be nothing unless it is well dressed,"
cried Miss Georgiana; "and I never will play Zara in old trumpery."

"Well, my dear, there's your amber satin, or your pink, or your green, or
your white, or--I am sure you have dresses enough. Lydia, produce them, and
let me see."

Lydia covered the bed with various finery; but to every dress that was
produced some insuperable objection was started by the young lady or by her
maid.

"I remember you had a lavender satin, that I do not see here, Georgiana,"
said Mrs. Falconer.

"The colour did not become me, ma'am, and I sold it to Lydia."

_Sold! gave_, perhaps some innocent reader may suspect that the young lady
meant to say.--No: this buying and selling of finery now goes on frequently
between a certain class of fashionable maids and mistresses; and some young
ladies are now not ashamed to become old clothes-women.

"Vastly well," said Mrs. Falconer, smiling; "you have your own ways and
means, and I am glad of it, for I can tell you there is no chance of my
getting you any money from your father; I dare not speak to him on that
subject--for he was extremely displeased with me about Mrs. Sparkes' last
bill: so if you want a new dress for Zara, you and Lydia Sharpe must settle
it as well as you can between you. I will, in the mean time, go and write a
note, while you make your bargain."

"Bargain! Me, ma'am!" cried Lydia Sharpe, as Mrs. Falconer left the room;
"I am the worst creature extant at bargaining, especially with ladies. But
any thing I can do certainly to accommodate, I shall, I'm sure, be happy."

"Well, then," said Miss Georgiana, "if you take this white satin off my
hands, Lydia, I am sure I shall be happy."

"I have no objection, ma'am--that is, I'm in duty bound to make no manner
of objections," said Lydia, with a very sentimental air, hanging her
head aside, and with one finger rubbing her under-lip slowly, as she
contemplated the white satin, which her young mistress held up for sale. "I
am really scrupulous--but you're sensible, Miss Georgiana, that your white
satin is so all frayed with the crape sleeves. Lady Trant recommended--"

"Only a very little frayed."

"But in the front breadth, ma'am; you know that makes a world of
difference, because there's no hiding, and with satin no turning--and not a
bit neither to new body."

"The body is perfectly good."

"I beg pardon for observing, but you know, ma'am, you noticed yourself how
it was blacked and soiled by wearing under your black lace last time, and
that you could not wear it again on that account."

"I!--but _you_--"

"To be sure, ma'am, there's a great deal of difference between I and you:
only when one comes to bargaining--"

She paused, seeing wrath gathering black and dire in her young lady's
countenance; before it burst, she changed her tone, and continued, "All I
mean to say, ma'am, is, that white satin being a style of thing I could not
pretend to think of wearing in any shape myself, I could only take it to
part with again, and in the existing circumstances, I'm confident I should
lose by it. But rather than disoblige, I'll take it at whatever you
please."

"Nay, I don't please about the matter, Lydia; but I am sure you had an
excellent bargain of my lavender satin, which I had only worn but twice."

"Dear heart!--La, ma'am! if you knew what trouble I had with Mrs. Sparkes,
the dress-maker, about it, because of the coffee-stain--And I vow to my
stars I am ashamed to mention it; but Mrs. Scrags, Lady Trant's woman, and
both the Lady Arlingtons' maids, can vouch for the truth of it. I did not
make a penny, but lost, ma'am, last year, by you and Miss Bell; that is,
not by you nor Miss Bell, but by all I bought, and sold to disadvantage;
which, I am morally certain, you would not have permitted, had you known of
it, as I told Mrs. Scrags, who was wondering and pitying of me: my young
ladies, Mrs. Scrags, says I--"

"No matter," interrupted Georgiana; "no matter what you said to Mrs.
Scrags, or Mrs. Scrags to you--but tell me at once, Lydia, what you can
afford to give me for these three gowns."

"I afford to give!" said Lydia Sharpe. "Well, the times is past, to be
sure, and greatly changed, since ladies used to give, but now it's their
maids must give--then, suppose--let's see, ma'am--for the three, the old
white satin, and the amber satin, and the black lace--why, ma'am, if you'd
throw me the pink crape into the bargain, I don't doubt but I could afford
to give you nine guineas, ma'am," said the maid.

"Then, Lydia Sharpe, you will never have them, I promise you," cried the
mistress: "Nine guineas! how can you have the assurance to offer me such a
sum? As if I had never bought a gown in my life, and did not know the value
or price of any thing! Do you take me for a fool?"

"Oh! dear no, miss--I'm confident that you know the value and price to the
uttermost penny--but only you forget that there's a difference betwixt
the buying and selling price for ladies; but if you please, ma'am--I
would do any thing to oblige and accommodate you--I will consult the
Lady Arlingtons' women, Miss Flora, and Miss Prichard, who is judges in
this line--most honourable appraisers; and if they praise the articles,
on inspection, a shilling higher, I am sure I shall submit to their
jurisdiction--if they say ten guineas, ma'am, you shall have it, for I love
to be at a word and a blow--and to do every thing genteel: so I'll step and
consult my friends, ma'am, and give you my ultimatum in half an hour."

So saying, whilst her young mistress stood flushed and swelling with pride
and anger, which, however, the sense of her own convenience and interest
controlled, the maid swept up the many coloured robes in her arms, and
carried them up the back stairs, to hold her consultation with her friends,
the most honourable of appraisers.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Falconer, returning as she heard the maid quit
the room, "have you driven your bargain for the loan? Have you raised the
supplies?"

"No, indeed, ma'am--for Lydia is grown a perfect Jew. She may well say she
is related to Sharpe, the attorney--she is the keenest, most interested
creature in the world--and grown very saucy too."

"Like all those people, my dear; but one can't do without them."

"But one can change them."

"But, to use their own language, one is not sure of bettering oneself--and
then their wages are to be paid--and all one's little family secrets are at
their mercy."

"It's very provoking--it is very provoking!" repeated Miss Georgiana,
walking up and down the room. "Such an extortioner!--for my amber satin,
and my white satin, and my black lace, and my pink crape, only nine
guineas! What do you think of that, ma'am?"

"I think, my dear, you pay a prodigious premium for ready money; but nine
guineas will dress Zara decently, I dare say, if that's your object."

"Nine guineas! ma'am," cried Miss Georgiana, "impossible! I can't act at
all--so there's an end of the matter."

"Not an end of the matter quite," said Mrs. Falconer, coolly; "for in that
case I must look out for another Zara."

"And where will you find one, ma'am?"

"The Lady Arlingtons have both fine figures--and, I dare say, would either
of them oblige me."

"Not they. Lady Anne, with her indolence and her languor--a lady who looks
as if she was saying, 'Quasha, tell Quaco to tell Fibba to pick up this pin
that lies at my foot;' do you think she'd get a part by heart, ma'am, to
oblige you--or that she could, if she would, act Zara?--No more than she
could fly!"

"But her sister, Lady Frances, would and could," said Mrs. Falconer. "She
is quick enough, and I know she longs to try Zara."

"Longs!--Lord, ma'am, she longs for fifty things in a minute!--Quick!--Yes,
but don't depend on her, I advise you; for she does not know, for two
seconds together, what she would have or what she would do."

"Then I have resource in one who, I am persuaded, will not disappoint me or
any body else," said Mrs. Falconer.

"Whom can you mean, ma'am?"

"Miss Caroline Percy. Count Altenberg put it into my head: he observed
that she would look the character remarkably well--and I will write to her
directly."

Without power of articulating, Miss Georgiana Falconer fixed her eyes upon
her mother for some moments.

"You think I have lost my senses this morning--I thought, and I am afraid
so did many other people, that you had lost yours last night. Another such
scene, your friends the Lady Arlingtons for spectators, you are ridiculous,
and, of course, undone for life in the fashionable world--establishment,
and every thing else that is desirable, irrevocably out of the question. I
am surprised that a girl of your understanding and really polished manners,
Georgiana, should, the moment any thing crosses or vexes you, show no more
command of temper, grace, or dignity, than the veriest country girl. When
things go wrong, do you see me lose all presence of mind; or rather, do you
ever see me change a muscle of my countenance?"

"The muscles of some people's countenance, ma'am, I suppose, are
differently made from others--mine will change with my feelings, and there
is no remedy, for my feelings unfortunately are uncommonly acute."

"That is a misfortune, indeed, Georgiana; but not without remedy, I trust.
If you will take my advice--"

"Were you ever in love, ma'am?"

"Properly--when every thing was settled for my marriage; but not
improperly, or it might never have come to my wedding-day. Headstrong
child! listen to me, or you will never see that day with Count Altenberg."

"Do you mean, ma'am, to ask Miss Caroline Percy to play Zara?"

"I will answer no question, Georgiana, till you have heard me patiently."

"I only hope, ma'am, you'll put it in the play-bill--or, if you don't, I
will--Zara, Miss Caroline Percy--by particular desire of Count Altenberg."

"Whatever I do, you may hope and be assured, Georgiana, shall be properly
done," cried Mrs. Falconer, rising with dignity; "and, since you are not
disposed to listen to me, I shall leave you to your own inventions, and go
and write my notes."

"La, mamma! dear mamma! _dear'st_ mamma!" cried the young lady, throwing
her arms round her mother, and stopping her. "You that never change a
muscle of your countenance, how hasty you are with your own Georgiana!--sit
down, and I'll listen patiently!"

Mrs. Falconer seated herself, and Miss Georgiana prepared to listen
patiently, armed with a piece of gold fringe, which she rolled and
unrolled, and held in different lights and varied festoons whilst her
mother spoke, or, as the young lady would say, lectured. Mrs. Falconer was
too well aware of the impracticableness of her daughter's temper to tell
her upon this occasion the whole truth, even if her own habits would have
permitted her to be sincere. She never mentioned to Georgiana that she had
totally given up the scheme of marrying her to Count Altenberg, and that
she was thoroughly convinced there was no chance of her winning him; but,
on the contrary, she represented to the young lady that the Count had only
a transient fancy for Miss Caroline Percy, which would never come to any
serious proposal, unless it was opposed; that in a short time they should
go to town, and the Count, of course, would return with Lord Oldborough:
then the game would be in her own hands, provided, in the mean time,
Georgiana should conduct herself with prudence and temper, and let no
creature see or suspect any sort of anxiety; for that would give such an
advantage against her, and such a triumph to Caroline and her friends, who,
as Mrs. Falconer said, were, no doubt, all on the watch to "interpret," or
misinterpret, "motions, looks, and eyes." "My dear," concluded the mother,
"your play is to show yourself always easy and happy, whatever occurs;
occupied with other things, surrounded by other admirers, and encouraging
them properly--properly of course to pique the jealousy of your Count."

"My Count!" said Georgiana, with half a smile; "but Miss--You say this
fancy of his will pass away--but when? When?"

"You young people always say, '_but when?_' you have no idea of looking
forward: a few months, a year, more or less, what does it signify?
Georgiana, are you in such imminent danger of growing old or ugly?"

Georgiana turned her eyes involuntarily towards the glass, and smiled.

"But, ma'am, you were not in earnest then about getting another Zara."

"The offer I made--the compliments I paid in the note I wrote this morning,
were all necessary to cover your mistakes of the night."

"Made! Wrote!" cried the young lady, with terror in her voice and eyes:
"Good Heavens! mother, what have you done?"

"I had no doubt at the time I wrote," continued Mrs. Falconer, coolly, "I
had no other idea, but that Miss Caroline Percy would decline."

"Oh! ma'am," cried Georgiana, half crying, then stamping with passion, "Oh!
ma'am, how could you imagine, or affect to imagine, that that girl, that
odious girl, who was born to be my plague, with all her affected humility,
would decline?--Decline!--no, she will be transported to come sweeping in,
in gorgeous tragedy--Zara! Marcia! If the whole family can beg or borrow
a dress for her, we are undone--that's our only chance. Oh! mother, what
possessed you to do this?"

"Gently, pretty Passionate, and trust to my judgment in future," putting
into her daughter's hands Mrs. Percy's note.

"Miss Caroline Percy--sorry--out of her power!--Oh! charming!--a fine
escape!" cried Georgiana, delighted. "You may be sure it was for want of
the dress, though, mamma."

"No matter--but about yours, my dear?"

"Oh! yes, ma'am--my dress; that's the only difficulty now."

"I certainly wish you, my darling, to appear well, especially as all the
world will be here: the two Clays--by-the-bye, here's their letter--they
come to-morrow--and in short the whole world; but, as to money, there's but
one way of putting your father into good-humour enough with you to touch
upon that string."

"One way--well, if there be one way--any way."

"Petcalf!"

"Oh! Petcalf is my abhorrence--"

"There is the thing! He was speaking to your father seriously about you,
and your father sounded me: I said you would never agree, and he was quite
displeased--that and Mrs. Sparkes' bill completely overset him. Now, if you
had your wish, Georgiana--what would be your taste, child?"

"My wish! My taste!--Oh! that would be for a delicate, delicate, soft,
sentimental blue satin, with silver fringe, looped with pearl, for my first
act; and in my last--"

"Two dresses! Oh! you extravagant! out of all possibility."

"I am only wishing, telling you my taste, dear mamma. You know there must
be a change of dress, in the last act, for Zara's nuptials--now for my
wedding dress, mamma, my taste would be

  'Shine out, appear, be found, my lovely Zara,'

in bridal white and silver. You know, ma'am, I am only supposing."

"Well then, supposition for supposition," replied Mrs. Falconer: "supposing
I let your father hope that you are not _so_ decided to abhor poor
Petcalf--"

"Oh! dear mamma, I am so persecuted about that Petcalf! and compared with
Count Altenberg, my father must be blind, or think me an idiot."

"Oh! between him and the Count there is no comparison, to be sure; but I
forgot to mention, that what your father builds upon is our poor old friend
the general's death--Clay here, in a postscript, you see, mentions the gout
in his stomach--so I am afraid he is as good as gone, as your father says,
and then _The Lodge_ in _Asia Minor_ is certainly a pretty place to sit
down upon if one could do no better."

"But, ma'am, the Count's vast possessions and rank!"

"I grant you all that, my dear; but our present object is the play--Zara's
royal robes cannot be had for nothing, you know--you never listened to my
infallible means of obtaining your wish: I think I can engage that the
commissioner will not refuse us, if you will empower me to say to him, that
by this time twelvemonth, if nothing better offers--mind my _if_--Petcalf
shall be rewarded for his constancy."

"If--Oh! dear me! But before this time twelvemonth the Count--"

"Or one of the Clays might offer, and in that case, my _if_ brings you off
safe with your father."

"Well, then, mamma, upon condition that you will promise me, upon your
word, you will lay a marked emphasis upon your _if_--I believe, for Zara's
sake, I must--"

"I knew you would behave at last like a sensible girl," said Mrs. Falconer:
"I'll go and speak to your father directly."

Mrs. Falconer thus fairly gained her point, by setting Georgiana's passion
for dress against her passion for Count Altenberg; and having, moreover,
under false pretences, extorted from the young lady many promises to keep
her temper prudently, and to be upon the best terms possible with her
rival, the mother went away perfectly satisfied with her own address.

The father was brought to perform his part, not without difficulty--Carte
blanche for Zara's sentimental blue and bridal white robes was obtained,
silver fringe and pearls inclusive: the triumphant Zara rang for the base
confidante of her late distresses--Lydia Sharpe re-entered, with the
four dresses upon sale; but she and her guineas, and the most honourable
appraisers, all were treated with becoming scorn--and as Lydia obeyed her
young lady's orders to replace her clothes in her wardrobe, and never to
think of them more, they suddenly rose in value in her estimation, and
she repented that she had been quite so much of an extortioner. She knew
the difference of her mistress's tone when disappointed or successful,
and guessed that supplies had been obtained by some means or other: "New
dresses, I smell, are the order of the day," said Lydia Sharpe to herself;
"but I'll engage she will want me presently to make them up: so I warrant I
won't come down off my high horse till I see why--Miss Georgiana Falconer,
ma'am, I beg pardon--you are the mistress--I meant only to oblige and
accommodate when called upon--but if I'm not wanted, I'm not wanted--and I
hope ladies will find them that will be more abler and willinger to serve
them."

So saying, half flouncing, half pouting, she retired. Her young mistress,
aware that Lydia's talents and expeditious performance, as a mantua-maker
and a milliner, were essential to the appearance of Zara, suppressed her
own resentment, submitted to her maid's insolence, and brought her into
humour again that night, by a present of the famous white satin.

In due time, consequently, the Turkish dresses were in great forwardness.
Lest we should never get to the play, we forbear to relate all the various
frettings, jealousies, clashing vanities, and petty quarrels, which
occurred between the actresses and their friends, during the getting up
of this piece and its rehearsals. We need mention, only that the seeds of
irreconcileable dislike were sown at this time, between the Miss Falconers
and their dear friends, the Lady Arlingtons: there was some difficulty made
by Lady Anne about lending her diamond crescent for Zara's turban--Miss
Georgiana could never forgive this; and Lady Frances, on her part, was
provoked, beyond measure, by an order from the duke, her uncle, forbidding
her to appear on the stage. She had some reason to suspect that this order
came in consequence of a treacherous hint in a letter of Georgiana's to
Lady Trant, which went round, through Lady Jane Granville to the duke, who
otherwise, as Lady Frances observed, "in the midst of his politics, might
never have heard a word of the matter."

Mrs. Falconer had need of all her power over the muscles of her face,
and all her address, in these delicate and difficult circumstances. Her
daughter Arabella, too, was sullen--the young lady was subject to her
brother John's fits of obstinacy. For some time she could not be brought to
undertake the part of Selima; and no other Selima was to be had. She did
not see why she should condescend to play the confidante for Georgiana's
Zara--why she was to be sacrificed to her sister; and Sir Robert Percy, her
admirer, not even to be invited, because the other Percys were to come.

Mrs. Falconer plied her well with flattery, through Colonel Spandrill; and
at last Arabella was pacified by a promise that the following week "Love
in a Village," or "The Lord of the Manor," should be acted, in which she
should choose her part, and in which her voice and musical talents would
be brought forward--and Sir Robert Percy and his friends should be the
principal auditors.

Recovered, or partly recovered, from her fit of the sullens, she was
prevailed upon to say she would try what she could do in Selima.

The parts were learnt by heart; the dresses, after innumerable alterations,
finished to the satisfaction of the heroes and heroines of the drama.

Their quarrels, and the quarrels of their friends and of their servants,
male and female, were at last hushed to temporary repose, and--the great,
the important day arrived.

The preceding evening, Mrs. Falconer, as she sat quite exhausted in the
green-room, was heard to declare, she was so tired, that she would not go
through the same thing again, for one month, to be Queen of England.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


The theatre at Falconer-court was not very spacious, but it was elegantly
fitted up, extremely well lighted, and had a good effect. There was a
brilliant audience, an excellent band of music, and the whole had a gay and
festive appearance.

The Percy family, as they came from a great distance, were late. The house
was crowded. Mrs. Falconer was obliged to seat Mrs. Percy and her daughters
with the Lady Arlingtons on a bench upon the stage: a conspicuous
situation, which had been reserved for their ladyships.

Every eye instantly turned upon the beautiful Caroline. She bore the gaze
of public admiration with a blushing dignity, which interested every body
in her favour. Count Altenberg, who had anxiously expected the moment of
her arrival, was, however, upon his guard. Knowing that he was watched by
Mrs. Falconer's friends, he was determined that his secret thoughts should
not be seen. One involuntary glance he gave, but immediately withdrew his
eye, and continued his conversation with the gentleman next to him. After
a few moments had elapsed, he could indulge himself in looking at Caroline
unobserved, for the gaze of public admiration is as transient as it is
eager. It is surprising how short a time any face, however beautiful,
engages numbers who meet together to be seen.

The audience were now happily full of themselves, arranging their seats,
and doing civilities to those of their friends who were worthy of notice.

"Lady Trant! won't your ladyship sit in the front row?"

"I'm vastly well, thank you."

"Lady Kew, I am afraid you won't see over my head."

"Oh! I assure you--perfectly--perfectly."

"Colonel Spandrill, I'll trouble you--my shawl."

"Clay, lend me your opera-glass.--How did you leave all at Bath?"

"I'm so glad that General Petcalf's gout in his stomach did not carry him
off--for young Petcalf could not have acted, you know, to-night.--Mrs.
Harcourt is trying to catch your eye, Lady Kew."

All those who were new to the theatre at Falconer-court, or who were not
intimate with the family, were in great anxiety to inform themselves on
one important point, before the prologue should begin. Stretching to those
who were, or had the reputation of being, good authorities, they asked in
whispers, "Do you know if there is to be any clapping of hands?--Can you
tell me whether it is allowable to say any thing?"

It seems that at some private theatres loud demonstrations of applause
were forbidden. It was thought more genteel to approve and admire in
silence,--thus to draw the line between professional actors and actresses,
and gentlemen and lady performers. Upon trial, however, in some instances,
it had been found that the difference was sufficiently obvious, without
marking it by any invidious distinction. Young and old amateurs have
acknowledged, that the silence, however genteel, was so dreadfully awful,
that they preferred even the noise of vulgar acclamations.

The cup of flattery was found so sweet, that objections were no longer made
to swallowing it in public.

The overture finished, the prologue, which was written by Mr. Seebright,
was received with merited applause. And, after a buzz of requests and
promises for copies, the house was silent--the curtain drew up, and the
first appearance of Zara, in the delicate sentimental blue satin, was
hailed with plaudits, long and loud--plaudits which were reiterated at the
end of her first speech, which was, indeed, extremely well recited. Count
Altenberg leaned forward, and seemed to listen with delight; then stood up,
and several times renewed his plaudits; at first, with an appearance of
timidity, afterwards, with decision and energy. Miss Georgiana Falconer
really acted uncommonly well, so that he could without flattery applaud;
and if he did exaggerate a little in the expression of his admiration, he
deemed it allowable. He had another object: he was absolutely determined
to see whether or not Caroline was capable of the mean passions which had
disgusted him in her rival. He reflected that he had seen her only when
she was triumphant; and he was anxious to know how she would appear in
different circumstances. Of her high intellectual endowments he could not
doubt; but temper is not always a blessing given to the fair, or even to
the wise. It may seem strange that a gallant man should think of a beauty's
temper; and, probably, if Count Altenberg had considered Caroline only as
a beauty, he would not have troubled himself to make, on this point, any
severe and dangerous scrutiny.

The play went on--Zara sustaining the interest of the scene. She was but
feebly supported by the sulky Selima, and the other parts were but ill
performed. The faults common to unpractised actors occurred: one of
Osman's arms never moved, and the other sawed the air perpetually, as if
in pure despite of Hamlet's prohibition. Then, in crossing over, Osman was
continually entangled in Zara's robe; or, when standing still, she was
obliged to twitch her train thrice before she could get it from beneath his
leaden feet. When confident that he could repeat a speech fluently, he was
apt to turn his back upon his mistress; or, when he felt himself called
upon to listen to his mistress, he would regularly turn his back upon the
audience. But all these are defects permitted by the licence of a private
theatre, allowable by courtesy to gentlemen-actors; and things went on as
well as could be expected. Osman had not his part by heart, but still Zara
covered all deficiencies: and Osman did no worse than other Osmans had done
before him, till he came to the long speech, beginning with,

  "The sultans, my great ancestors, bequeath'd
  Their empire to me, but their tastes they gave not."

Powerful prompting got him through the first six lines decently enough,
till he came to

  --"wasting tenderness in wild profusion,
  I might look down to my surrounded feet,
  And bless contending beauties,"

At this he bungled sadly--his hearing suddenly failing as well as his
memory, there was a dead stop. In vain the prompter, the scene-shifter, the
candle-snuffer, as loud as they could, and much louder than they ought,
reiterated the next sentence,

  "I might speak,
  Serenely slothful."

It was plain that Osman could not speak, nor was he "serene." He had begun,
as in dangers great he was wont, to kick his left ankle-bone rapidly
with his right heel; and through the pomp of Osman's oriental robes and
turban young Petcalf stood confessed. He threw back an angry look at the
prompter--Zara terrified, gave up all for lost--the two Lady Arlingtons
retreated behind the scenes to laugh--the polite audience struggled not
to smile. Count Altenberg at this moment looked at Caroline, who, instead
of joining in the laugh, showed by her countenance and manner the most
good-natured sympathy.

Zara, recovering her presence of mind, swept across the stage in such a
manner as to hide from view her kicking sultan; and as she passed, she
whispered the line to him so distinctly, that he caught the sound, left off
kicking, went on with his speech, and all was well again. Count Altenberg
forgot to join in the cheering plaudits, he was so much charmed at that
instant by Caroline's smile.

Fortunately for Zara, and for the audience, in the next scenes the part
of Lusignan was performed by a gentleman who had been well used to
acting--though he was not a man of any extraordinary capacity, yet, from
his _habit of the boards_, and his being perfect in his part, he now seemed
quite a superior person. It was found unaccountably easier to act with this
son of labour than with any other of the gentlemen-performers, though they
were all natural geniuses.

The moment Zara appeared with Lusignan, her powers shone forth--nothing
spoiled the illusion, the attention of the audience was fixed, their
interest was sustained, their feelings touched. The exercise of the fan
ceased in the front rows, glasses of lemonade were held untasted, and
nobody consulted the play-bill. Excited by success, sympathy, and applause
the most flattering, Zara went on with increasing clat.

Meanwhile the Percy family, who were quite intent upon the play, began to
find their situation disagreeable from some noise behind the scenes. A
party of ladies, among whom was Lady Frances Arlington, stood whispering so
loud close to Caroline that their voices were heard by her more distinctly
than those of the actors. Lady Frances stood half hid between the side
scenes, holding a little white dog in her arms.

"Hush!" cried her ladyship, putting her fingers on her lips--her companions
became silent instantly. The house was now in profound attention. Zara was
in the midst of her favourite speech,

  "Would you learn more, and open all my heart?
  Know then that, spite of this renew'd injustice,
  I do not--cannot--wish to love you less;
  --That long before you look'd so low as Zara,
  She gave her heart to Osman."

At the name of _Osman_, the dog started and struggled--Lady Frances
appeared to restrain him, but he ran on the stage--leaped up on Zara--and
at the repetition of the name of _Osman_ sat down on his hind legs, begged
with his fore-paws, and began to whine in such a piteous manner that the
whole audience were on the brink of laughter--Zara, and all her attendants
and friends, lost their presence of mind.

Caroline sprang forward quite across the stage, caught the dog in her arms,
and carried him off. Count Altenberg, no longer master of himself, clapped
his hands, and the whole house resounded with applause.

Miss Georgiana Falconer misunderstood the cause of the plaudits, imagined
that she was _encored_, cast down her eyes, and, as soon as there was
silence, advanced and recommenced her speech, of which Count Altenberg did
not hear one word.

This malicious trick had been contrived by Lady Frances Arlington, to
revenge herself on Miss Georgiana Falconer for having prevented her
from taking a part in the play. Her ladyship had, in the course of the
rehearsals, privately drilled her dog to answer to the name of Osman, when
that name was pronounced in Zara's tragic tone. The dog had been kept out
of the way till Zara was in the midst of that speech in which she calls
repeatedly on the name of Osman. This trick had been so well contrived,
that all but those who were in the secret imagined that the appearance of
the dog at this unlucky moment had been accidental. The truth began indeed
to be soon whispered in confidence.

But to return to Count Altenberg. At the commencement of the play, when
the idea of trying Caroline's temper had occurred to him, he had felt
some anxiety lest all the high expectations he had formed, all the bright
enchantment, should vanish. In the first act, he had begun by joining
timidly in the general applause of Zara, dreading lest Caroline should not
be blessed with that temper which could bear the praises of a rival "with
unwounded ear." But the count applauded with more confidence in the second
act; during the third was quite at his ease; and in the fifth could not
forgive himself for having supposed it possible that Caroline could be
liable to any of the foibles of her sex.

In the mean time Miss Georgiana Falconer, in high spirits, intoxicated with
vanity, was persuaded that the Count had returned to his senses; and so
little did she know of his character, or of the human heart, as to expect
that a declaration of love would soon follow this public profession of
admiration. Such was the confusion of her ideas, that she was confident
Zara was on the point of becoming Countess of Altenberg.

After the play was over, and a thousand compliments had been paid and
received, most of the company called for their carriages. The house emptied
fast: there remained only a select party, who were to stay supper. They
soon adjourned to the green-room to repeat their tribute of applause to the
actors. High in the midst stood Miss Georgiana Falconer, receiving incense
from & crowd of adorers. As Count Altenberg approached, she assumed a
languishing air of softness and sensibility. The Count said all that could
reasonably be expected, but his compliments did not seem quite to satisfy
the lady. She was in hopes that he was going to say something more to her
taste, when French Clay pressed forward, which he did with an air neither
French nor English. He protested that he could not have conceived it
possible for the powers of any actress upon earth to interest him for the
English Zara; "but you, madam," said he, "have done the impossible; and now
I should die content, if I could see your genius do justice to Zare. How
you would shine in the divine original, when you could do such wonders for
a miserable translation!"

Several gentlemen, and among others Mr. Percy, would not allow that the
English translation deserved to be called miserable. "The wrong side of
the tapestry we cannot expect should be quite equal to the right side."
said he: "Voltaire pointed out a few odds and ends here and there, which
disfigured the work, and required to be cut off; but upon the whole, if
I recollect, he was satisfied with the piece, and complimented Mr. Hill
upon having preserved the general design, spirit, and simplicity of the
original."

"Mere politeness in M. de Voltaire!" replied French Clay; "but, in effect,
Zare is absolutely incapable of any thing more than being _done into_
English. For example, will any body have the goodness to tell me," said he,
looking round, and fixing his look of appeal on Miss Caroline Percy, "how
would you translate the famous '_Zare!--vous pleurez!_"

"Is not it translated," said Caroline, "by 'Zara! you weep?'"

"Ah! _pardonnez moi!_" cried French Clay, with a shrug meant to be French,
but which English shoulders could not cleverly execute--"_Ah! pardonnez!_
to my ears now that says nothing."

"To our feelings it said a great deal just now," said Caroline, looking
at Zara in a manner which was lost upon her feelings, but not upon Count
Altenberg's.

"Ah! indubitably I admit," cried Mr. Clay, "_la beaut est toujours dans
son pays_, and tears fortunately need no translation; but when we come
to words, you will allow me, ma'am, that the language of fine feeling is
absolutely untranslateable, _untransfusible_."

Caroline seemed to wish to avoid being drawn forward to farther discussion,
but Mr. Clay repeated, in a tone of soft condescension, "Your silence
flatters me with the hope, ma'am, that we agree?"

Caroline could not submit to this interpretation of her silence, and
blushing, but without being disconcerted, she answered, that she had always
heard, and believed, it was the test of true feeling, as of true wit, that
it can be easily understood, and that its language is universal.

"If I had ever doubted that truth," said Count Altenberg, "I should have
been convinced of it by what I have seen and heard this night."

Miss Georgiana Falconer bowed her head graciously to the Count, and smiled,
and sighed. Lady Frances Arlington and Rosamond smiled at the same moment,
for they perceived by the universal language of the eye, that what Count
Altenberg said was not intended for the lady who took it so decidedly to
herself. This was the second time this night that Miss Georgiana Falconer's
vanity had appropriated to herself a compliment in which she had no share.
Yet, even at this moment, which, as she conceived, was a moment of triumph,
while she was encircled by adorers, while the voice of praise yet vibrated
in her ears, she felt anguish at perceiving the serenity of her rival's
countenance; and, however strange it may appear, actually envied Caroline
for not being envious.

Mrs. Falconer, skilled in every turn of her daughter's temper, which she
was now obliged to follow and humour, or dexterously to counteract, lest it
should ruin all schemes for her establishment, saw the cloud gathering on
Zara's brow, and immediately fixed the attention of the company upon the
beauty of her dress and the fine folds of her velvet train. She commenced
lamentations on the difference between English and French velvets. French
Clay, as she had foreseen, took up the word, and talked of _velvets_ till
supper was announced.

When Mrs. Falconer attended Lady Trant and Lady Kew to their rooms, a
nocturnal conference was held in Lady Trant's apartment, where, of course,
in the most confidential manner, their ladyships sat talking over the
events of the day, and of some matters too interesting to be spoken of
in general society. They began to congratulate Mrs. Falconer upon the
impression which Zara had made on Count Altenberg; but the wily mother
repressed their premature felicitations. She protested she was positively
certain that the person in question had _now_ no thoughts of Georgiana,
such as their ladyships' partiality to her might lead them to suppose; and
now, when the business was over, she might venture to declare that nothing
could have persuaded her to let a daughter of hers marry a foreigner. She
should have been sorry to give offence to such an amiable and well-informed
young nobleman; and she really rejoiced that, if her sentiments had been,
as no doubt by a person of his penetration they must have been, discovered,
Count Altenberg had taken the hint without being offended: indeed, she had
felt it a point of conscience to let the truth be seen time enough, to
prevent his coming to a downright proposal, and having the mortification
of an absolute refusal. Other mothers, she knew, might feel differently
about giving a daughter to a foreigner, and other young ladies might feel
differently from her Georgiana. Where there was so great an establishment
in prospect, and rank, and fashion, and figure, to say nothing of talents,
it could hardly be expected that such temptations should be resisted in a
_certain family_, where it was so very desirable, and indeed necessary, to
get a daughter married without a portion. Mrs. Falconer declared that on
every account she should rejoice, if things should happen to turn out so.
The present object was every way worthy, and charming. She was a young lady
for whom, even from the little she had seen of her, she confessed she felt
uncommonly interested--putting relationship out of the question.

Thus having with able generalship secured a retreat for herself and for her
daughter, Mrs. Falconer retired to rest.

Early the next morning one of Lord Oldborough's grooms brought a note for
Mr. Percy. Commissioner Falconer's confidential servant took the note
immediately up to his master's bedchamber, to inquire whether it would be
proper to waken Mr. Percy to give it to him, or to make the groom wait till
Mr. Percy should come down to breakfast.

The commissioner sat up in his bed, rubbed his eyes, read the direction of
the note, many times turned and returned it, and desired to see the man who
brought it. The groom was shown in.

"How is my lord's gout?"

"Quite well, sir: my lord was out yesterday in the park--both a horseback
and afoot."

"I am very happy to hear it. And pray, did any despatches come last night
from town, can you tell, sir?"

"I really can't particularly say, sir--I was out with the horses."

"But about this note?" said the commissioner.

The result of the cross-examination that followed gave reason to believe
that the note contained an invitation to breakfast, because he had heard
Mr. Rodney, my lord's own gentleman, tell the man whose business it was
to attend at breakfast, that my lord would breakfast in his own room, and
expected a friend to breakfast with him.

"A friend--Hum! Was there no note to me?--no message?"

"None, sir--as I know."

"Very extraordinary." Mr. Falconer inclined to keep the man till
breakfast-time, but he would not be kept--he had orders to return with
an answer immediately; and he had been on the fidgets all the time the
commissioner had been detaining him; for Lord Oldborough's messengers
could nut venture to delay. The note was consequently delivered to Mr.
Percy immediately, and Mr. Percy went to breakfast at Clermont-park. The
commissioner's breakfast was spoiled by the curiosity this invitation
excited, and he was obliged to chew green tea for the heartburn with great
diligence. Meantime the company were all talking the play over and over
again, till at last, when even Zara appeared satiated with the subject,
the conversation diverged a little to other topics. Unluckily French Clay
usurped so large a portion of attention, that Count Altenberg's voice was
for some time scarcely heard--the contrast was striking between a really
well-bred polished foreigner, and a man who, having kept bad company
abroad, and having formed himself on a few bad models, presented an
exaggerated imitation of those who were ridiculous, detested, or unknown,
in good society at Paris; and whom the nation would utterly disclaim
as representatives of their morals or manners. At this period of their
acquaintance with Count Altenberg, every circumstance which drew out his
character, tastes, and opinions, was interesting to the Percy family
in general, and in particular to Caroline. The most commonplace and
disagreeable characters often promoted this purpose, and thus afforded
means of amusement, and materials for reflection. Towards the end of
breakfast, the newspapers were brought in--the commissioner, who had
wondered frequently what could make them so late, seized upon the
government-paper directly, which he pocketed, and retired, after handing
other newspapers to Count Altenberg and to the Mr. Clays. English Clay,
setting down his well-sugared cup of tea, leaving a happily-prepared morsel
of ham and bread and butter on his plate, turned his back upon the ladies;
and comfortably settling himself with his arm over his chair, and the light
full upon London news, began to read to himself. Count Altenberg glanced
at _Continental News_, as he unfolded his paper, but instantly turned to
_Gazette Extraordinary_, which he laid before Mrs. Falconer. She requested
him, if it was not too much trouble, to read it aloud. "I hope my foreign
accent will not make it unintelligible," said he; and without farther
preface, or considering how he was to appear himself, he obeyed. Though
he had not a perfectly English accent, he showed that he had a thoroughly
English heart, by the joy and pride he took in reading an account of a
great victory.

English Clay turned round upon his chair, and setting his arms a-kimbo,
with the newspaper still fast in his hand, and his elbow sticking out
across Lady Anne Arlington, sat facing the count, and listening to him With
a look of surprise. "Why, d----m'me, but you're a good fellow, after all!"
exclaimed he, "though you are not an Englishman!"

"By the mother's side I am, sir," replied Count Altenberg. "I may boast
that I am at least half an Englishman."

"Half is better than the whole," said French Clay, scornfully.

"By the Lord, I could have sworn his mother, or some of his blood, was
English!" cried English Clay. "I beg your pardon, ma'am--'fraid I annoy
your ladyship?" added he, perceiving that the Lady Anne haughtily retreated
from his offending elbow.

Then sensible of having committed himself by his sudden burst of feeling,
he coloured all over, took up his tea, drank as if he wished to hide his
face for ever in the cup, recovered his head with mighty effort, turned
round again to his newspaper, and was cold and silent as before. His
brother meanwhile was, or affected to be, more intent upon some _eau
sucre_, that he was preparing for himself, than upon the fate of the army
and navy of Spain or England. Rising from the breakfast table, he went into
the adjoining room, and threw himself at full length upon a sofa; Lady
Frances Arlington, who detested politics, immediately followed, and led the
way to a work-table, round which the ladies gathered, and formed themselves
in a few minutes into a committee of dress, all speaking at once; Count
Altenberg went with the ladies out of the breakfast-room, where English
Clay would have been happy to have remained alone; but being interrupted
by the entrance of the servants, he could not enjoy peaceable possession,
and he was compelled also to follow:--getting as far as he could from the
female committee, he took Petcalf into a window to talk of horses, and
commenced a history of the colts of Regulus, and of the plates they had
won.

French Clay, rising from the sofa, and adjusting his cravat at a
looking-glass, carelessly said, addressing himself to Count Altenberg, "I
think, M. le Comte, I heard you say something about public feelings. Now, I
do not comprehend precisely what is meant by public feelings; for my part,
I am free to confess that I have none."

"I certainly must have expressed myself ill," replied Count Altenberg; "I
should have said, love of our country."

Mrs. Percy, Rosamond, and Caroline, escaped from the committee of dress,
were now eagerly listening to this conversation.

"And if you had, M. le Comte, I might, _en philosophe_, have been permitted
to ask," replied French Clay, "what is love of our country, but a mere
_prejudice_? and to a person of an _emancipated_ mind, that word prejudice
says volumes. Assuredly M. le Comte will allow, and must _feel well_, that
no prejudice ever was or can be useful to mankind."

The Count fully admitted that utility is the best human test by which all
sentiment, as well as every thing else, can be tried: but he observed
that Mr. Clay had not yet proved love of our country to be a useless or
pernicious principle of action: and by his own argument, if it can be
proved to be useful, it should not be called, in the invidious sense of the
word, a prejudice.

"True--but the labour of the proof fortunately rests with you, M. le
Comte."

Count Altenberg answered in French, speaking very rapidly. "It is a labour
saved me fortunately, by the recorded experience of all history, by the
testimony of the wisest and the best in all, countries, ancient and
modern--all agree in proclaiming love of our country to be one of the
most powerful, most permanent motives to good and great actions; the most
expansive, elevating principle--elevating without danger--expansive without
waste; the principle to which the legislator looks for the preservative
against corruption in states--to which the moralist turns for the antidote
against selfishness in individuals. Recollect, name any great character,
ancient or modern--is not love of his country one of his virtues? Can you
draw--can you conceive a great character--a great or a good character, or
even a safe member of society without it? A man hangs loose upon society,
as your own Burke says--"

"Ah! M. le Comte!" cried Clay, shrinking with affected horror, "I repent--I
see what I have brought upon myself; after Burke will come Cicero; and
after Cicero all Rome, Carthage, Athens, Lacedemon. Oh! spare me! since I
was a schoolboy, I could never _suffer_ those names. Ah! M. le Comte, de
grce!--I know I have put myself _in the case_ to be buried alive under a
load of quotations."

The Count, with that good humour which disappoints ridicule, smiled, and
checked his enthusiasm.

"Is there not a kind of enthusiasm," said Mrs. Percy, "which is as
necessary to virtue as to genius?"

French Clay shook his head. He was sorry to differ from a lady; as a
gallant man, he knew he was wrong, but as a philosopher he could not
patronize enthusiasm. It was the business, he apprehended, of philosophy to
correct and extinguish it.

"I have heard it said," interposed Rosamond, "that it is a favourite maxim
of law, that the extreme of justice is the extreme of injustice--perhaps
this maxim may be applied to philosophy as well as to law."

"Why extinguish enthusiasm?" cried Caroline. "It is not surely the business
of philosophy to extinguish, but to direct it. Does not enthusiasm, well
directed, give life and energy to all that is good and great?"

There was so much life and energy in Caroline's beautiful countenance, that
French Clay was for a moment silenced by admiration.

"After all," resumed he, "there is one slight circumstance, which persons
of feeling should consider, that the evils and horrors of war are produced
by this very principle, which some people think so useful to mankind, this
famous love of our country."

Count Altenberg asked, whether wars had not more frequently arisen from
the unlawful fancies which princes and conquerors are apt to take for the
territories of their neighbours, than from the legitimate love of their own
country?

French Clay, hurried by a smile he saw on Rosamond's lips, changed his
ground again for the worse, and said he was not speaking of wars, of
foreign conquests, but of defensive wars, where foolish people, from an
absurd love of their own country, that is, of certain barren mountains, of
_a few acres of snow_, or of collections of old houses and churches, called
capital cities, will expose themselves to fire, flame, and famine, and will
stand to be cut to pieces inchmeal, rather than to submit to a conqueror,
who might, ten to one, be a more civilized or cleverer sort of a person
than their own rulers; and under whom they might enjoy all the luxuries
of life--changing only the name of their country for some other equally
well-sounding name; and perhaps adopting a few new laws, instead of what
they might have been in the habit from their childhood of worshipping, as
a wittenagemote, or a diet, or a constitution. "For my part," continued
French Clay, "I have accustomed myself to go to the bottom of things.
I have _approfondied_. I have not suffered my understanding to be
paralysed--I have made my own analysis of happiness, and find that your
legislators, and moralists, and patriots, would juggle me out of many solid
physical comforts, by engaging me to fight for enthusiasms which do me no
manner of good."

Count Altenberg's countenance had flushed with indignation, and cooled
with contempt, several times during Mr. Clay's Speech. Beginning in a
low composed voice, he first answered, whatever pretence to reason it
contained, in the analysis of human happiness, he observed, Mr. Clay
had bounded his to physical comforts--this was reducing civilized man
below even the savage, and nearly to the state of brutes. Did Mr. Clay
choose to leave out all intellectual pleasures--all the pleasures of
self-complacency, self-approbation, and sympathy? But, supposing that he
was content to bound his happiness, inelegant and low, to such narrow
limits, Count Altenberg observed, he did not provide for the security even
of that poor portion. If he were ready to give up the liberty or the free
constitution of the country in which he resided, ready to live under
tyrants and tyranny, how could he be secure for a year, a day, even an
hour, of his epicurean paradise?

Mr. Clay acknowledged, that, "in this point of view, it might be awkward
to live in a conquered country; but if a man has talents to make himself
agreeable to the powers that be, and money in his purse, _that_ can never
touch him, _chacun pour soi--et honi soit qui mal y pense_."

"Is it in England!--Oh! can it be in England, and from an Englishman, that
I hear such sentiments!" exclaimed Count Altenberg. "Such I have heard on
the continent--such we have heard the precursors of the ruin, disgrace,
destruction of the princes and nations of Europe!"

Some painful reflections or recollections seemed to absorb the Count for a
few moments.

"_Foi d'honnte homme et de philosophe_," French Clay declared, that, for
his own part, he cared not who ruled or how, who was conqueror, or what
was conquered, provided champagne and burgundy were left to him by the
conqueror.

Rosamond thought it was a pity Mr. Clay was not married to the lady who
said she did not care what revolutions happened, as long as she had her
roast chicken, and her little game at cards.

"Happen what will," continued French Clay, "I have two hundred thousand
pounds, well counted--as to the rest, it is quite indifferent to me,
whether England be called England or France; for," concluded he, walking
off to the committee of dress, "after all I have heard, I recur to my first
question, what is country--or, as people term it, _their native land_?"

The following lines came full into Caroline's recollection as French Clay
spoke:

  "Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
  Who never to himself has said,
  This is my own, my native land?
  Whose heart has ne'er within him burn'd,
  As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
  From wandering on a foreign strand?
  If such there he, go, mark him well;
  High though his titles, proud his fame,
  Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim,
  Despite these titles, power and pelf,
  The wretch, concentred all in self,
  Living shall forfeit fair renown,
  And doubly dying shall go down
  To the vile dust from whence he sprung.
  Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung."

Caroline asked Count Altenberg, who seemed well acquainted with English
literature, if he had ever read Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel?

The Count smiled, and replied,

  "'Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
  Who never to himself has said'

any of those beautiful lines?"

Caroline, surprised that the Count knew so well what had passed in her
mind, blushed.

At this moment Mrs. Falconer returned, and throwing a reconnoitring glance
round the room to see how the company had disposed of themselves, was well
pleased to observe French Clay leaning on the back of Georgiana's chair,
and giving her his opinion about some artificial flowers. The ladies had
been consulting upon the manner in which the characters in "Love in a
Village,"--or, "The Lord of the Manor," should be dressed, and Miss
Arabella Falconer had not yet completely determined which piece or which
dress she preferred. She was glad that the Percys had been kept from this
committee, because, as they were not to be asked to the entertainment,
it was a subject she could not discuss before them. Whenever they had
approached the table, the young ladies had talked only of fashions in
general; and now, as Mrs. Percy and Caroline, followed by Count Altenberg,
joined them, Mrs. Falconer put aside a volume of plays, containing "The
Lord of the Manor," &c.; and, taking up another book, said something about
the immortal bard to English Clay, who happened to be near her. He replied,
"I have every edition of Shakspeare that ever was printed or published, and
every thing that ever was written about him, good, bad, or indifferent, at
Clay-hall. I made this a principle, and I think every Englishman should do
the same. _Your_ Mr. Voltaire," added this polite Englishman, turning to
Count Altenberg, "made a fine example of himself by _dashing_ at _our_
Shakspeare?"

"Undoubtedly, Voltaire showed he did not understand Shakspeare, and
therefore did not do him justice," replied Count Altenberg. "Even Voltaire
had some tinge of national prejudice, as well as other men. It was reserved
for women to set us, in this instance, as in many others, an example at
once of superior candour and superior talent."

English Clay pulled up his boots, and, with a look of cool contempt, said,
"I see you are a lady's man, monsieur."

Count Altenberg replied, that if a lady's man means an admirer of the fair
sex, he was proud to feel that he deserved that compliment; and with much
warmth he pronounced such a panegyric upon that sex, without whom "_le
commencement de la vie est sans secours, le milieu sans plaisir, et la fin
sans consolation_," that even Lady Anne Arlington raised her head from
the hand on which it reclined, and every female eye turned upon him with
approbation.

"Oh! what a lover he will make, if ever he is in love," cried Lady Frances
Arlington, who never scrupled saying any thing that came into her head. "I
beg pardon, I believe I have said something very shocking. Georgiana, my
dear, I protest I was not thinking of--But what a disturbance I have made
amongst all your faces, ladies--and _gentlemen_," repeated her ladyship,
looking archly at the Count, whose face at this moment glowed manifestly;
"and all because gentlemen and ladies don't mind their grammar and their
tenses. Now don't you recollect--I call upon Mrs. Falconer, who really has
some presence of--countenance--I call upon Mrs. Falconer to witness that
I said 'if;' and, pray comprehend me, M. le Comte, else I must appear
excessively rude, I did not mean to say any thing of the present or the
past, but only of the future."

The Count, recovering his presence of mind, and _presence_ of
_countenance_, turned to a little Cupid on the mantel-piece; and, playfully
doing homage before it, repeated,

  "Qui que tu sois voici ton matre,
  Il l'est, le fut--ou le doit tre."

"Oh! charming--oh! for a translation!" cried Mrs. Falconer, glad to turn
the attention from Georgiana:--"Lady Frances--ladies some of you, Miss
Percy, here's my pencil."

Here they were interrupted by Mr. Percy's return from Lord Oldborough's.

The commissioner followed Mr. Percy into the room, and asked, and was
answered, a variety of questions about despatches from town; trying, but,
in vain, to find out what had been going forward. At last he ended with a
look of absence, and a declaration that he was quite happy to hear that
Lord Oldborough had _so_ completely got rid of his gout.

"Completely," said Mr. Percy; "and he desires me to tell you, that it will
be necessary for him to return to town in a few days."

"In a few days!" cried the commissioner.

"In a few days!" repeated several voices, in different tones.

"In a few days!--Gracious Heaven! and what will become of 'the Lord of the
Manor!'" cried Miss Falconer.

"Gently, my Arabella! never raise your voice so high--you, who are a
musician," said Mrs. Falconer, "and so sweet a voice as you have--in
general. Besides," added she, drawing her apart, "you forget that you
should not speak of 'the Lord of the Manor' before the Percys, as they
are not to be asked."

"To be sure. Pray keep your temper, Bell, if you can, for a minute,"
whispered Miss Georgiana; "you see they have rung for the carriage."

Mrs. Falconer began to entreat Mrs. Percy would not be in a hurry to run
away; but to her great joy the carriage came to the door.

At parting with Count Altenberg, Mr. Percy said that he regretted that they
were so soon to lose his company in this part of the world. "We, who live
so much retired, shall feel the loss particularly."

The Count, evidently agitated, only said, in a low voice, "We are not
parting yet--we shall meet again--I hope--do you ever go to London?"

"Never."

"At all events, we _must_ meet again," said the Count.

The ladies had all collected at the open windows, to see the departure of
the Percys; but Miss Georgiana Falconer could learn nothing from the manner
in which the Count handed Caroline into the carriage. It did not appear
even that he spoke to her.

On his return, the Miss Falconers, and the Lady Arlingtons, were of course
talking of those who had just left the house. There was at first but one
voice in praise of Caroline's beauty and talents, elegance, and simplicity
of manner. Mrs. Falconer set the example; Lady Frances Arlington and Miss
Georgiana Falconer extolled her in the highest terms--one to provoke, the
other not to appear provoked.

"La!" said Lady Frances, "how we may mistake even the people we know
best--Georgiana, can you conceive it? I never should have guessed, if you
had not told me, that Miss Caroline Percy was such a favourite of yours. Do
you know now, so little penetration have I, I should have thought that you
rather disliked her?"

"You are quite right, my dear Lady Frances," cried Mrs. Falconer; "I give
you credit for your penetration: _entre nous_, Miss Caroline Percy is no
favourite of Georgiana."

Georgiana actually opened her eyes with astonishment, and thought her
mother did not know what she was saying, and that she certainly did not
perceive that Count Altenberg was in the room.

"Count Altenberg, is this the book you are looking for?" said the young
lady, pronouncing Count Altenberg's name very distinctly, to put her mother
on her guard.

Mrs. Falconer continued precisely in the same tone. "Georgiana does
justice, I am sure, to Miss Percy's merit and charms; but the truth is,
she does not like her, and Georgiana has too much frankness to conceal it;
and now come here, and I will tell you the reason." In a half whisper,
but perfectly intelligible to every one in the room, Mrs. Falconer went
on--"Georgiana's favourite brother, Buckhurst--did you never hear it? In
days of yore, there was an attachment--Buckhurst, you know, is very ardent
in his attachments--desperately in love he was--and no wonder. But at
that time he was nobody--he was unprovided for, and the young lady had a
good fortune then--her father would have him go to the bar--against the
commissioner's wishes. You know a young man will do any thing if he is in
love, and is encouraged--I don't know how the thing went on, or off, but
Buckhurst found himself disappointed at last, and was so miserable about
it! ready to break his heart! you would have pitied him! Georgiana was so
sorry for him, that she never could forgive the young lady--though I really
don't imagine, after all, she was to blame. But sisters will feel for their
brothers."

Georgiana, charmed to find this amiable mode of accounting for her dislike
to Caroline, instantly pursued her mother's hint, and frankly declared
that she never could conceal either her likings or dislikings--that Miss
Caroline Percy might have all the merit upon earth, and she did not doubt
but she had; yet she never could forgive her for jilting Buckhurst--no,
never! never! It might be unjust, but she owned that it was a prepossession
she could not conquer.

"Why, indeed, my dear young lady, I hardly know how to blame you," cried
Lady Trant; "for certainly a jilt is not a very amiable character."

"Oh! my dear Lady Trant, don't use such a word--Georgiana!--Why will you be
so warm, so very unguarded, where that darling brother is concerned? You
really--Oh! my dear Lady Trant, this must not go farther--and positively
the word jilt must never be used again; for I'm confident it is quite
inapplicable."

"I'd not swear for that," cried Lady Trant; "for, now I recollect, at Lady
Angelica Headingham's, what was it we heard, my dear Lady Kew, about her
coquetting with that Mr. Barclay, who is now going to be married to Lady
Mary Pembroke, you know?"

"Oh! yes, I did hear something, I recollect--but, at the time, I never
minded, because I did not know, then, who that Miss Caroline Percy was--
true, true, I recollect it now. And all, you know, we heard about her and
Sir James Harcourt--was there not something there? By all accounts, it is
plain she is not the simple country beauty she looks--practised!--
practised! you see."

Miss Georgiana Falconer's only fear was, that Count Altenberg might not
hear Lady Kew, who had lowered her voice to the note of mystery. Mrs.
Falconer, who had accomplished her own judicious purpose, of accounting for
Georgiana's dislike of Miss Caroline Percy, was now afraid that her dear
friends would overdo the business; she made many efforts to stop them,
but once upon the scent of scandal, it was no easy matter to change the
pursuit.

"You seem to have found something that has caught your attention
delightfully, Count Altenberg," said Mrs. Falconer; "how I envy any one who
is completely _in_ a book--what is it?"

"Johnson's preface to Shakspeare."

Miss Georgiana Falconer was vexed, for she recollected that Miss Caroline
Percy had just been speaking of it with admiration.

Mrs. Falconer wondered how it could have happened that she had never read
it.

Lady Kew persevered in her story. "Sir James Harcourt, I know, who is the
most polite creature in the whole world, and who never speaks an ill word
of any body, I assure you, said of Miss Caroline Percy in my hearing--what
I shall not repeat. Only this much I must tell you, Mrs. Falconer--Mrs.
Falconer!--She won't listen because the young lady is a relation of her
own--and we are very rude; but truth is truth, notwithstanding, you know.
Well, well, she may talk of Miss Percy's beauty and abilities--very clever
she is, I don't dispute; but this I may say, that Mrs. Falconer must never
praise her to me for simplicity of character."

"Why, no," said Miss Georgiana; "one is apt to suppose that a person
who has lived all her life in the country must, of course, have great
simplicity. But there is a simplicity of character, and a simplicity of
manner, and they don't always go together. Caroline Percy's manner is
fascinating, because, you know, it is what one does not meet with every day
in town--that was what struck my poor brother--that and her great talents,
which can make her whatever she pleases to be: but I am greatly afraid she
is not quite the _ingenuous_ person she looks."

Count Altenberg changed colour, and was putting down his book suddenly,
when Mrs. Falconer caught it, and stopping him, asked how far he had read.

Whilst he was turning over the leaves, Lady Trant went on, in her
turn--"With all her _practice_, or her _simplicity_, whichever it may
be--far be it from me to decide which--I fancy she has met with her match,
and has been disappointed in her turn."

"Really!" cried Georgiana, eagerly: "How! What! When!--Are you certain?"

"Last summer--Oh! I have it from those who know the gentleman well. Only an
affair of the heart that did not end happily: but I am told she was very
much in love. The family would not hear of it--the mother, especially, was
averse: so the young gentleman ended by marrying--exceedingly well--and the
young lady by wearing the willow, you know, a decent time."

"Oh! why did you never tell me this before?" said Miss Georgiana.

"I protest I never thought of it, till Lady Kew brought it to my
recollection, by talking of Lady Angelica Headingham, and Sir James
Harcourt, and all that."

"But who was the gentleman?"

"That's a secret," replied Lady Trant.

"A secret!--A secret!--What is it? What is it?" cried Lady Frances
Arlington, pressing into the midst of the party; for she was the most
curious person imaginable.

Then heads joined, and Lady Trant whispered, and Lady Frances exclaimed
aloud, "Hungerford?--Colonel Hungerford!"

"Fie! fie! Lady Frances," cried Georgiana--and "Fie! fie! you are a pretty
person to keep a secret," cried Lady Trant: "I vow I'll never trust your
ladyship with a secret again--when you publish it in this way."

"I vow you will," said Lady Frances. "Why, you all know, in your hearts,
you wish to publish it--else why tell it--especially to me? But all this
time I am not thinking in the least about the matter, nor was I when I said
_Hungerford_--I was and am thinking of my own affairs. What did I do with
the letter I received this morning? I had it here--no, I hadn't it--yes, I
had--Anne!--Anne!--Lady Anne! the duchess's letter: I gave it to you; what
did you do with it?"

"La! it is somewhere, I suppose," said Lady Anne, raising her head, and
giving a vague look round the room.

Lady Frances made every one search their work-boxes, writing-boxes, and
reticules; then went from table to table, opening and shutting all the
drawers.

"Frances!--If you would not fly about so! What can it signify?"
expostulated Lady Anne. But in vain; her sister went on, moving every thing
and every body in the room, displacing all the cushions of all the chairs
in her progress, and, at last, approached Lady Anne's sofa, with intent to
invade her repose.

"Ah! Frances!" cried Lady Anne, in a deprecating tone, with a gesture of
supplication and anguish in her eyes, "do let me rest!"

"Never, till I have the letter."

With the energy of anger and despair Lady Anne made an effort to reach the
bell-cord--but it missed--the cord swung--Petcalf ran to catch it, and
stumbled over a stool--English Clay stood still and laughed--French Clay
exclaimed, "_Ah! mon Dieu! Cupidon!_"

Count Altenberg saved Cupid from falling, and rang the bell.

"Sir," said Lady Anne to the footman, "I had a letter--some time this
morning, in my hand."

"Yes, my lady."

"I want it."

"Yes, my lady."

"Pray, sir, tell somebody to tell Pritchard, to tell Flora, to go up stairs
to my dressing-room, sir, to look every where for't; and let it be brought
to my sister, Lady Frances, if you please, sir."

"No, no, sir, don't do any thing about the matter, if you please--I will go
myself," said Lady Frances.

Away the lady ran up stairs, and down again, with the letter in her hand.

"Yes! exactly as I thought," cried she; "my aunt does say, that Mrs.
Hungerford is to be down to-day--I thought so."

"Very likely," said Lady Anne; "I never thought about it."

"But, Anne, you must think about it, for my aunt desires we should go and
see her directly."

"I can't go," said Lady Anne--"I've a cold--your going will do."

"Mrs. Falconer, my dear Mrs. Falconer, will you go with me to-morrow to
Hungerford Castle?" cried Lady Frances, eagerly.

"Impossible! my dear Lady Frances, unfortunately quite impossible. The
Hungerfords and we have no connexion--there was an old family quarrel--"

"Oh! never mind family quarrels and connexions--you can go, and I am
sure it will be taken very well--and you know you only go with me. Oh!
positively you must--now there's my good dear Mrs. Falconer--yes, and order
the carriage this minute for to-morrow early," said Lady Frances, in a
coaxing yet impatient tone.

Mrs. Falconer adhered to its being absolutely impossible.

"Then, Anne, you must go."

No--Anne was impenetrable.

"Then I'll go by myself," cried Lady Frances, pettishly--"I'll take
Pritchard with me, in our own carriage, and I'll speak about it
directly--for go I must and will."

"Now, Frances, what new fancy is this for Mrs. Hungerford? I am sure you
used not to care about her," said Lady Anne.

"And I dare say I should not care about her now," replied Lady Frances,
"but that I am dying to see an old pair of shoes she has."

"An old pair of shoes!" repeated Lady Anne, with a look of unutterable
disdain.

"An old pair of shoes!" cried Mrs. Falconer, laughing.

"Yes, a pair of blue damask shoes as old as Edward the Fourth's time--with
chains from the toe to the knee, you know--or do you know, Count Altenberg?
Miss Percy was describing them--she saw Colonel Hungerford put them on--Oh!
he must put them on for me--I'll make him put them on, chains and all,
to-morrow."

"Colonel Hungerford is on his way to India by this time," said Georgiana
Falconer, drily.

"May I ask," said Count Altenberg, taking advantage of the first pause in
the conversation--"may I ask if I understood rightly, that Mrs. Hungerford,
mother of Colonel Hungerford, lives in this neighbourhood, and is coming
into the country to-morrow?"

"Yes--just so," said Lady Frances.

What concern can it be of his? thought Miss Georgiana Falconer, fixing her
eyes upon the Count with alarmed curiosity.

"I knew Colonel Hungerford abroad," continued the Count, "and have a great
regard for him."

Lady Kew, Lady Trant, and Miss Georgiana Falconer, exchanged looks.

"I am sorry that he is gone to India," said Mrs. Falconer, in a sentimental
tone; "it would have been so pleasant to you to have renewed an
acquaintance with him in England."

Count Altenberg regretted the absence of his friend, the colonel;
but, turning to Lady Frances, he congratulated himself upon having an
opportunity of presenting his letters of introduction, and paying his
respects to Mrs. Hungerford, of whom he had heard much from foreigners
who had visited England, and who had been charmed with her, and with her
daughter, Mrs. Mortimer--his letters of introduction had been addressed to
her town residence, but she was not in London when he was there.

"No, she was at Pembroke," said Lady Kew.

I'm sure I wish she were there still, thought Miss Georgiana.

"But, after all, Lady Frances, is the duchess sure that Mrs. Hungerford is
actually come to the country?--May be, she is still in town."

"I shall have the honour of letting your ladyship know; for, if Lord
Oldborough will permit, I shall certainly go, very soon, to pay my respects
at Hungerford Castle," said Count Altenberg.

The prescient jealousy of Miss Georgiana Falconer boded ill of this visit
to Hungerford Castle. A few days afterwards a note was received from
Count Altenberg, returning many thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Falconer for the
civilities he had received from them, paying all proper compliments to
Zara, announcing his intention of accepting an invitation to stay some time
at Mrs. Hungerford's, and taking a polite leave of the Falconer family.

Here was a death-blow to all Georgiana's hopes! But we shall not stay to
describe her disappointment, or the art of her mother in concealing it; nor
shall we accompany Mrs. Falconer to town, to see how her designs upon the
Clays or Petcalf prospered. We must follow Count Altenberg to Hungerford
Castle.




CHAPTER XXIX.


  "Who would prize the tainted posies,
    Which on ev'ry breast are worn?
  Who could pluck the spotless roses
    From their never touched thorn?"

The feeling expressed in these lines will be acknowledged by every man of
sense and delicacy. "No such man ever prized a heart much hackneyed in the
ways of love." It was with exquisite pain that Count Altenberg had heard
all that had been said of Caroline--he did not give credit to half the
insinuations--he despised those who made them: he knew that some of the
ladies spoke from envy, others from the mere love of scandal; but still,
altogether, an impression unfavourable to Caroline, or rather unfavourable
to his passion for Caroline, was left on his mind. The idea that she had
been suspected, the certainty that she had been talked of, that she had
even been named as one who had coquetted with many admirers--the notion
that she had been in love--passionately in love--all this took from the
freshness, the virgin modesty, the dignity, the charm, with which she had
appeared to his imagination, and without which she could not have touched
his heart--a heart not to be easily won.

In his own country, at the court where he resided, in the different parts
of the continent which he had visited, Germany, Poland, Switzerland,
France, he had seen women celebrated for beauty and for wit, many of
the most polished manners, many of the highest accomplishments, some of
exquisite sensibility, a few with genuine simplicity of character, but in
all there had been something which had prevented his wishing to make any
one of them the companion of his life. In some there was a want of good
temper--in others of good sense; there was some false taste for admiration
or for notoriety--some love of pleasure, or some love of sway, inconsistent
with his idea of the perfection of the female character, incompatible with
his plans of life, and with his notions of love and happiness.

In England, where education, institutions, opinion, manners, the habits of
society, and of domestic life, happily combine to give the just proportion
of all that is attractive, useful, ornamental, and amiable to the female
character--in England, Count Altenberg had hopes of finding a woman who, to
the noble simplicity of character that was once the charm of Switzerland,
joined the polish, the elegance, that was once the pride of France; a woman
possessing an enlarged, cultivated, embellished understanding, capable
of comprehending all his views as a politician and a statesman; yet
without any wish for power, or love of political intrigue. Graced with
knowledge and taste for literature and science, capable of being extended
to the highest point of excellence, yet free from all pedantry, or
pretension--with wit, conversational talents, and love of good society,
without that desire of exhibition, that devouring diseased appetite for
admiration, which preys upon the mind insatiably, to its torture--to
its destruction; without that undefineable, untranslateable French love
of _succs de socit_, which substitutes a precarious; factitious,
intoxicated existence in public, for the safe self-approbation, the sober,
the permanent happiness of domestic life. In England Count Altenberg hoped
to find a woman raised by "divine philosophy" [Footnote: Milton.] far
above all illiberal prejudice, but preserving a just and becoming sense of
religion; unobtrusive, mild, and yet firm. Every thing that he had seen of
Caroline had confirmed his first hope, and exalted his future expectation;
but, by what he had just heard, his imagination was checked in full career,
suddenly, and painfully. His heavenly dream was disturbed by earthly
voices--voices of malignant spirits--mysterious--indistinct--yet alarming.
He had not conceived it possible that the breath of blame could approach
such a character as Caroline's--he was struck with surprise, and shocked,
on hearing her name profaned by common scandal, and spoken of as the victim
of a disappointed passion, the scorn of one of the most distinguished
families in England. Such were the first painful thoughts and feelings
of Count Altenberg. At the time he heard the whispers which gave rise to
them, he had been actually penning a letter to his father, declaring his
attachment--he now resolved not to write. But he determined to satisfy
himself as to the truth or falsehood of these reports. He was not a man to
give ear lightly to calumny--he detested its baseness; he would not suffer
himself for a moment to brood over suspicion, nor yet would he allow
himself for present ease and pleasure to gloss over, without examination,
that which might afterwards recur to his mind, and might create future
unjust or unhappy jealousy. Either the object of his hopes was worthy of
him, or not--if not worthy, better tear her from his heart for ever. This
determined him to go immediately to Mrs. Hungerford's. Count Altenberg
trusted to his own address and penetration for discovering all he wished
to know, without betraying any peculiar interest in the subject.

The first sight of Mrs. Hungerford, the gracious dignity of her appearance
and manners, the first five minutes' conversation he had with her, decided
him in the opinion, that common report had done her justice; and raised
in his mind extreme anxiety to know her opinion of Caroline. But, though
he began the history of Zara, and of the play at Falconer-court, for the
express purpose of introducing the Percys, in speaking of the company who
had been present, yet, conscious of some unusual emotion when he was going
to pronounce that name, and fancying some meaning in Mrs. Hungerford's
great attention as he spoke, he mentioned almost every other guest, even
the most insignificant, without speaking of Caroline, or of any of her
family. He went back to his friend Colonel Hungerford. Mrs. Hungerford
opened a letter-case, and took from it the last letter she had received
from her son since he left England, containing some interesting
particulars.--Towards the conclusion of the letter, the writing changed
to a small feminine hand, and all India vanished from the view of Count
Altenberg, for, as he turned the page, he saw the name of Caroline Percy:
"I suppose I ought to stop here," said he, offering the letter to Mrs.
Hungerford. "No," she replied, the whole letter was at his service--they
were only a few lines from her daughter Lady Elizabeth.

These few lines mentioned Caroline Percy among the dear and intimate
friends whom she regretted most in Europe, and to whom she sent a message
expressive of the warmest affection and esteem. A glow of joy instantly
diffused itself over his whole frame. As far as related to Colonel
Hungerford, he was sure that all he had heard was false. There was little
probability that his wife should, if those circumstances were true, he
Caroline's most intimate friend. Before these thoughts had well arranged
themselves in his head, a pleasing, sprightly young lady came into the
room, who he at first thought was Mrs. Hungerford's daughter; but she was
too young to answer exactly the description of Mrs. Mortimer.

"Lady Mary Pembroke, my niece," said Mrs. Hungerford.

Her ladyship was followed by Mr. Barclay--Count Altenberg seemed in a fair
way to have all his doubts satisfied; but, in the hurry of his mind, he had
almost forgotten to ask for Mrs. Mortimer.

"You will not see her to-day," said Mrs. Hungerford; "she is gone to see
some friends, who live at distance too great for a morning visit. But I
hope," continued Mrs. Hungerford, turning to Lady Mary, "that my daughter
will make me amends for losing a day of her company, by bringing me our
dear Caroline to-morrow."

"Is there a chance of Caroline's coming to us?" cried Lady Mary with
affectionate eagerness.

"Is there any hope of our seeing Miss Caroline Percy?" said Mr. Barclay,
with an air of respectful regard, very different from what must have been
the feelings of a man who had trifled with a woman, or who had thought that
she had trifled with him.

Count Altenberg rejoiced that he had come without a moment's delay to
Hungerford Castle.

"You are really a good creature, my dear," continued Mrs. Hungerford to
Lady Mary, "for being so anxious to have Caroline here--many a niece might
be jealous of my affection, for certainly I love her as well as if she
were my own child. To-morrow, sir," said she, turning to Count Altenberg,
"I hope I shall have the pleasure to introduce you to this young friend
of ours: I shall feel proud to show her to a foreigner, whom I wish to
prepossess in favour of my countrywomen."

The Count said that he had already had the honour of being presented to
Miss Caroline Percy--that he had seen her frequently at Falconer-court, and
at her own home--and that he was not surprised at the interest which she
excited at Hungerford Castle. Count Altenberg showed the interest she had
excited in his own mind, whilst he pronounced, in the most sober manner in
his power, those few words.

Mrs. Hungerford perceived it, nor had it escaped her observation, that he
had forborne to mention the name of Percy when enumerating the persons he
had met at Falconer-court. She was both too well bred in general, and too
discreet on Caroline's account, to take any notice of this circumstance.
She passed immediately and easily to a different subject of conversation.

The next day Mrs. Mortimer returned with Caroline. The Count saw the
affection with which she was embraced by Mrs. Hungerford. The family had
crowded to the door of the antechamber to receive her, so that Caroline,
encompassed with friends, could not immediately see the Count, and he
enjoyed these moments so exquisitely, that the idea which had previously
engrossed all his soul, anxiety to see how she would look on meeting him
thus unexpectedly, was absolutely forgotten. When the crowd opened, and
Mrs. Hungerford led her forward, a smile of frank surprise and pleasure
appeared on her countenance upon seeing Count Altenberg; but her colour had
been previously so much raised, and so much pleasure had sparkled in her
eyes, that there was no judging what share of emotion was to be attributed
to this surprise. He was, and he had reason to be, satisfied with
perceiving, that in the midst of the first pleasure of meeting intimate
friends, and when she did not expect to meet any but friends, she was not
chilled by the sight of one who was, to her, as yet but a new acquaintance.

After introducing Count Altenberg to Mrs. Mortimer, Mrs. Hungerford said,
"Till I had my daughter and all my friends in full force about me, I
prudently did not make any attempt, Count Altenberg, upon your liberty; but
now that you see my resources, I trust you will surrender yourself, without
difficulty, my prisoner, as long as we can possibly detain you in this
castle."

Never was man less disposed to refuse an invitation than Count Altenberg at
this moment. He wrote to Mrs. Falconer immediately that farewell note which
had shocked Miss Georgiana so much.

As Lord Oldborough was preparing to return to town, and likely to be
engrossed by ministerial business, his lordship, with less reluctance,
relinquished his company; and the Count, with infinite satisfaction, found
himself established at once upon a footing of intimacy at Hungerford
Castle. The letter he had intended to write to his father was now written
and sent; but it was expressed in yet stronger terms than he had originally
designed--he concluded by conjuring his father, as he valued the happiness
of his son, not to take a step in any of the treaties of marriage that had
been planned for him, and besought him to write as soon as it was possible,
to relieve his mind from suspense, and to set him at liberty to declare his
attachment, if, upon further acquaintance with the English lady who had
touched his heart, he should feel any hope of making such an impression on
her affections as could induce her to make for him the great sacrifice of
country, family, and friends. In the mean time, the hours and days passed
on most happily at Hungerford Castle. Every succeeding day discovered to
him some new excellence in the object of his affection. Mrs. Hungerford,
with judicious, delicate kindness, forbore all attempts to display even
those qualities and talents in Caroline which she most valued, certain that
she might safely leave them to the discernment of her lover. That Count
Altenberg loved, Mrs. Hungerford had too much penetration to doubt; and it
rejoiced her heart, and satisfied all her hopes, to see a prospect of her
young friend being united to such a man. Mrs. Mortimer felt as much joy and
as much delicacy upon the subject as her mother showed.

In that near examination in domestic life, so dangerous to many women of
the highest pretensions, Caroline shone superior. His love, approved by the
whole strength of his reason, and exalted by the natural enthusiasm of his
temper, was now at the highest. His impatience was extreme for the arrival
of that answer to his letter, which he hoped would set him at liberty to
declare his passion.

The letter at last arrived; very different were its contents from what he
had hoped. A previous letter from his father to him, sent in a packet with
government despatches by Mr. Cunningham Falconer, had not reached him. That
letter, of which his father now sent him a copy, contained an account of
the steps which had been taken, relative to a treaty of marriage between
his son and the Countess Christina, a lady of high birth, beauty, and
talents, who had lately appeared for the first time at that court. Count
Altenberg's father described the countess as one who, he was sure, must
charm his son; and as the alliance was eagerly desired by the lady's
friends, and in every respect honourable for his whole family, the old
Count was impatient to have the affair concluded. Receiving no answer to
this letter, and pressed by circumstances, he had gone forward in his son's
name with the treaty, and had pledged him so far, that there was now, he
declared, no possibility of retracting with honour. He lamented that his
son should, in the mean time, have taken a fancy to an English lady; but,
as Count Albert's letter gave the assurance to his family that he would not
take any decisive step till he should receive an answer, nothing could
have been done in England that would commit his honour--absence would soon
efface a transient impression--the advantages of the alliance proposed in
his own country would appear stronger the more they should be examined--the
charms of the Countess Christina, with her superior understanding, would
have an irresistible effect; "and," concluded the old count, "I beseech
you, my dear Albert, as your friend--I will say more--_I command you
as your father_, return to your own country as soon as you can obtain
passports after receiving this letter."

Count Altenberg would have left Hungerford Castle immediately, but he had
still a lingering hope that his last letter to his father would produce a
change in his mind, and for an answer to this he determined to wait; but
a sudden change appeared in his manner: he was grave and absent; instead
of seeking Caroline's company and conversation as usual, he studiously
avoided her; and when he did speak to her, his behaviour was so cold and
reserved--so unlike his natural or his former manner, that the difference
struck not only Caroline herself, but Rosamond and Mrs. Percy, who were,
at this time, at Hungerford Castle. It happened that, on the very day, and
nearly at the very hour, when Count Altenberg received this letter from
his father, of which no one knew any thing but himself, there arrived at
Hungerford Castle another of Mrs. Hungerford's nieces, a young lady of
uncommon beauty, and of the most attractive and elegant manners, Lady
Florence Pembroke. She was just returned from Italy with an uncle, who
had resided there for some time. Count Altenberg, from the moment he was
introduced to Lady Florence, devoted to her his whole attention--he sat
beside her--whenever he conversed, his conversation was addressed to
her; and the evident absence of mind he occasionally betrayed, and all
the change in his manner, seemed to have been caused by her ladyship's
appearance. Some sage philosophers know little more of cause and effect
than that the one precedes the other; no wonder then that Rosamond, not
famous for the accuracy of her reasoning, should, in this instance,
be misled by appearances. To support her character for prudence, she
determined not to seem to observe what passed, and not to mention her
suspicions to her sister; who, as she remarked, was sensible of the count's
altered manner; and who, as she rightly conjectured, did not perceive it
with indifference. The accomplishments, good sense, and exalted sentiments
of Count Altenberg, and the marked attentions he had paid her, had made an
unusual impression on the mind of Caroline. He had never declared his love,
but involuntarily it had betrayed itself on several occasions. Insensibly
Caroline was thus led to feel for him more than she dared to avow even
to herself, when the sudden change in his manner awakened her from this
delightful forgetfulness of every object that was unconnected with her
new feelings, and suddenly arrested her steps as she seemed entering the
paradise of love and hope.

At night, when they were retiring to rest, and Caroline and Rosamond
were in their mother's room, Rosamond, unable longer to keep her prudent
silence, gave vent to her indignation against Count Altenberg in general
reflections upon the fickleness of man. Even men of the best understanding
were, she said, but children of a larger growth--pleased with
change--preferring always the newest to the fairest, or the best. Caroline
did not accede to these accusations.

Rosamond, astonished and provoked, exclaimed, "Is it possible that you are
so blind as not to see that Count Altenberg--" Rosamond stopped short, for
she saw Caroline's colour change. She stood beside her mother motionless,
and with her eyes fixed on the ground. Rosamond moved a chair towards her.

"Sit down, my dear love," said her mother, tenderly taking Caroline's
hand--"sit down and compose yourself."

"My dear mother, you required one, and but one promise from me--I gave it
you, firmly intending to keep it; and yet I fear that you will think I have
broken it. I promised to tell you whenever I felt the first symptom of
preference for any person. I did not know my own mind till this day. Indeed
I thought I felt nothing but what every body else expressed, esteem and
admiration."

"In common minds," replied Mrs. Percy, "esteem and admiration may be very
safely distant from love; but in such a mind as yours, Caroline, the step
from perfect esteem to love is dangerously near--scarcely perceptible."

"Why dangerously?" cried Rosamond: "why should not perfect love follow
perfect esteem? that is the very thing I desire for Caroline. I am sure he
_is_ attached to her, and he is all we could wish for her, and--"

"Stop!" cried Caroline. "Oh! my dear sister! as you wish me to be good and
happy, name him to me no more--for it cannot be."

"Why?" exclaimed Rosamond, with a look of dismay: "Why cannot it be? It
can, it must--it shall be."

Caroline sighed, and turning from her sister, as if she dreaded to listen
to her, she repeated, "No;--I will not flatter myself--I see that it cannot
be--I have observed the change in his manner. The pain it gave me first
awakened me to the state of my own affections. I have given you some proof
of sincerity by speaking thus immediately of the impression made on my
mind. You will acknowledge the effort was difficult.--Mother, will you
answer me one question--which I am afraid to ask--did you, or do you think
that any body else perceived my sentiments by my manner?" Caroline paused,
and her mother and sister set her heart at ease on that point.

"After all," said Rosamond, addressing herself to her mother, "I may be
mistaken in what I hinted about Count Altenberg. I own I thought the change
in his manner arose from Lady Florence Pembroke--I am sorry I said any
thing of it--I dare say when he sees more of her--she is very pretty, very
pleasing, very elegant, and amiable, no doubt; but surely, in comparison
with Caroline--but I am not certain that there is any rivalship in the
case."

"I am certain that there shall be none," said Caroline. "How extraordinary
it is that the best, the noblest, the most delightful feelings of the
heart, may lead to the meanest, the most odious! I have, within a few
hours, felt enough to be aware of this. I will leave nothing to chance. A
woman should never expose herself to any hazard. I will preserve my peace
of mind, my own esteem. I will preserve my dear and excellent friends; and
that I may preserve some of them, I am sensible that I must now quit them."

Mrs. Percy was going to speak, but Rosamond interposed.

"Oh! what have I done!" exclaimed she: "imprudent creature that I was, why
did I speak? why did I open your eyes, Caroline? I had resolved not to say
a single word of the change I perceived in the Count."

"And did you think I should not perceive it?" said Caroline. "Oh, you
little know how quickly--the first look--the first tone of his voice--But
of that I will think no more. Only let me assure you, that you, my dear
Rosamond, did no harm--it was not what any body said that alarmed me:
before you pointed it out, I had felt that change in his manner, for which
I cannot account."

"You cannot account?--Can you doubt that Lady Florence is the cause?" said
Rosamond.

"Yes, I have great doubts," said Caroline.

"So have I," said Mrs. Percy.

"I cannot believe," said Caroline, "that a man of his sense and character
would be so suddenly captivated: I do not mean to detract from Lady
Florence's merits, but before they could make the impression you suspect
on Count Altenberg, there must have been time for them to be known and
appreciated. Shall I go on, and tell you all that has passed in my mind?
Yes, my mother and sister should see me as I am--perhaps under the delusion
of vanity--or self-love--or--But if I am wrong, you will set me right--you
will help me to set myself right: it has never been declared in words,
therefore perhaps I am vain and presumptuous to believe or to imagine--yet
I do feel persuaded that I am preferred--that I am--"

"Loved! Oh, yes!" said Rosamond, "a thousand times I have thought so, I
have felt certain, that Count Altenberg loved you; but now I am convinced,
alas! of my mistake--convinced at least that his love is of that light,
changeable sort, which is not worth having--not worth your having."

"That last," cried Caroline, "I can never believe." She stopped, and
blushed deeply. "What does my mother say?" added she, in a timid voice.

"My mother, I am sure, thought once that he loved Caroline--did not you,
mother?" said Rosamond.

"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Percy, "I have thought so, and I am not yet
convinced that we were mistaken; but I entirely agree with Caroline that
this is a subject upon which we ought not to let our thoughts dwell."

"Oh! so I have thought, so I have said on former occasions, how often,
how sincerely!" said Caroline. "But this is the first time I ever felt it
difficult to practise what I know to be wise and right. Mother, I beg it as
a favour that you will take me away from this place--this place, where but
yesterday I thought myself so happy!"

"But why, Caroline--why, mother, should she do this?" expostulated
Rosamond. "If she thinks, if you think that he loves her, if you do not
believe that he has changed, if you do not believe that he is struck with
a new face, why should Caroline go? For Heaven's sake do not take her away
till you are sure that it is necessary."

"I will be guided by her opinion," said Mrs. Percy; "I can depend entirely
on her own prudence."

"Indeed, I think it will be most prudent that I should not indulge myself
in staying longer," said Caroline. "From what I have seen of Count
Altenberg, we have reason to think that he acts in general from wise and
good motives. We should therefore believe that in the present instance his
motives are good and adequate--I cannot suspect that he acts from caprice:
what the nature of the obstacle may be, I can only guess; but I am inclined
to think that some opposing duty--"

"His duty," said Rosamond, "I suppose he must have known before to-day.
What new duty can he have discovered? No, no; men are not so very apt in
love matters to think of opposing duties as women do: much more likely that
he has heard something to your disadvantage, Caroline, from the Falconers.
I can tell you that Lady Frances Arlington gave me a hint that strange
things had been said, and great pains taken to misrepresent you to the
count."

"If injurious representations have been made of me to him," replied
Caroline, "he will in time discover the falsehood of such report; or, if he
believe them without examination, he is not what I imagine him to be. No;
I am convinced he has too noble a mind, too just an understanding, to be
misled by calumny."

Mrs. Percy declared she was decidedly of this opinion. "The obstacle,
whatever it may be, my dear mother," continued Caroline, with the earnest
tone and expression of countenance of a person of strong mind, at once
feeling and thinking deeply, "the difficulty, whatever it is, must be
either such as time will obviate or increase; the obstacle must be either
conquerable or unconquerable: if he love me, as I thought he did, if he
have the energy of character I think he possesses, he will conquer it, if
it can be conquered; if it be unconquerable, what misery, what madness,
to suffer my affections to be irrevocably engaged! or what base vanity
to wish, if it were in my power, to inspire him with an unhappy passion!
Then, in every point of view, mother, surely it is best that I should leave
this--dangerous place," said Caroline, smiling. "Yet you are both so happy
here, I am sorry to be the cause."

"My love," said her mother, "to us all things are trifles, compared with
what it is right and becoming that you should do. I entirely approve and
applaud your prudence and resolution: what you desire shall be done as soon
as possible. We will go home to-morrow morning."

"But, my dear ma'am! so suddenly! consider," cried Rosamond, "how very
strange this will appear to Mrs. Hungerford, and to every body!"

"My dear Rosamond, these are some of the small difficulties, the false
delicacies, which so often prevent people from doing what is right, or what
is essentially necessary for the security of the peace and happiness of
their whole lives," said Mrs. Percy.

"That is true," replied Rosamond; "and I do not object to doing the thing,
but I only wish we had some good, decent excuse for running away: you
don't expect that Mrs. Hungerford will part with you without remonstrance,
without struggle, without even inquiring, why you must run away? I am sure
I hope she will not ask me, for I am not prepared with an answer, and
my face would never do, and would give way at the first glance of her
penetrating eye--what will you say to Mrs. Hungerford?"

"The truth," replied Caroline. "Mrs. Hungerford has ever treated me with so
much kindness, has shown me so much affection and esteem, feels such a warm
interest in all that concerns me, and is herself of so noble a character,
that she commands my entire confidence--and she shall have it without
reserve. Since my mother agrees with me in thinking that Lady Florence has
not been in any degree the cause of the change of manner we have observed,
there can be no impropriety on that account in our speaking of the subject
to Mrs. Hungerford. It may be painful, humiliating--but what is meant by
confidence, by openness towards our friends?--We are all of us ready enough
to confess our virtues," said she, smiling; "but our weaknesses, what
humbles our pride to acknowledge, we are apt to find some delicate reason
for keeping secret. Mother, if you do not disapprove of it, I wish you to
tell Mrs. Hungerford the whole truth."

Mrs. Percy entirely approved of Caroline's placing confidence in this
excellent friend. She observed, that this was very different from the
girlish gossiping sort of _confidences_, which are made often from one
young lady to another, merely from the want of something to say, or the
pleasure of prattling about love, or the hope of being encouraged by some
weak young friend, to indulge some foolish passion.

The next morning, before Mrs. Hungerford had left her apartment, Mrs. Percy
went to her, and explained the reasons which induced Caroline to refuse
herself the pleasure of prolonging her visit at Hungerford Castle.

Mrs. Hungerford was touched by the confidence which Caroline placed in her.
"Believe me," said she, "it is not misplaced--I feel all its value. And
must I lose her? I never parted with her without regret, and that regret
increases the more I see of her. I almost forget that she is not my own,
till I am called upon to relinquish her: but much as I value her, much as
I enjoy her society, I cannot he so selfish as to wish to detain her when
her peace of mind is at stake. How few, how very few are there, of all the
various young women I know, who would have the good sense and resolution,
I will say it, the integrity of mind, to act as she does! There is usually
some sentimental casuistry, some cowardly fear, or lingering hope, that
prevents young people in these circumstances from doing the plain right
thing--any thing but the plain right thing they are ready to do--and there
is always some delicate reason for not telling the truth, especially to
their friends; but _our_ daughters, Mrs. Percy, are above these things."
With respect to Count Altenberg, Mrs. Hungerford said, that, from many
observations she had made, she felt no doubt of his being strongly attached
to Caroline. "Their characters, their understandings, are suited to each
other; they have the same high views, the same magnanimity. With one
exception--you must allow a mother's partiality to make an exception in
favour of her own son--with one exception Count Altenberg is the man of all
others to whom I could wish to see Caroline united. I never till yesterday
doubted that it would be; but I was as much struck with the change in
his manner as you have been. I agree with Caroline, that some obstacle,
probably of duty, has arisen, and I hope--but no, I will imitate her
example, and as you tell me she forbids herself to hope, so will I--if
possible. At all events she raises herself, high as she was in my esteem,
still higher by her present conduct. Tell her so, my dear Mrs. Percy--you,
her mother, may give this praise, without hurting her delicacy; and tell
her that, old as I am, I have not forgotten so completely the feelings of
my youth, as not to be aware that suspense in some situations is the worst
of evils. She may be assured that my attention shall be as much awake as
even her mother's could be--and when any thing that I think important or
decisive occurs, she shall hear from me immediately, or see me, unless I
should lose the use of my limbs, or my faculties."

A messenger came to summon Mrs. Hungerford to breakfast--soon afterwards a
ride was proposed by Mrs. Mortimer. Count Altenberg was to be one of this
party, and he looked for a moment surprised and disappointed, when he found
that Caroline was not going with them; but he forebore to ask why she did
not ride, and endeavoured to occupy himself solely in helping Mrs. Mortimer
to mount her horse--Rosamond was glad to perceive that he did not well know
what he was doing.

Before they returned from their ride, the Percys were on their way to the
Hills. Till this moment the sight of home, even after a short absence, had,
on returning to it, always been delightful to Caroline; but now, for the
first time in her life, every object seemed to have lost its brightness. In
the stillness of retirement, which she used to love, she felt something sad
and lifeless. The favourite glade, which formerly she thought the very spot
so beautifully described by Dryden, as the scene of his "Flower and the
Leaf," even this she found had lost its charm. New to love, Caroline was
not till now aware, that it throws a radiance upon every object, which,
when passed away, seems to leave all nature changed.

To banish recollections which she knew that she ought not to indulge, she
employed herself unremittingly. But her mind did not turn with its wonted
energy to her occupations, nor was it acted upon by those small motives
of ordinary life, by which it had formerly been excited. When reading,
her thoughts would wander even from her favourite authors: every subject
they discussed would remind her of some conversation that had passed at
Hungerford Castle; some coincidence or difference of opinion would lead
her to digress; some observation more just or more striking; some better
expression, or some expression which pleased her better than the author's,
would occur, and the book was laid down. These digressions of fancy
were yet more frequent when she was endeavouring to fix her attention
to drawing, needle-work, or to any other sedentary employment. Exercise
she found useful. She spent more time than usual in planting and in
gardening--a simple remedy; but practical philosophy frequently finds those
simple remedies the best which Providence has put within the reach of all.

One morning, soon after her return home, when she was alone and busy in
her garden, she heard voices at a distance; as they approached nearer,
she thought she distinguished Mrs. Hungerford's. She listened, and looked
towards the path whence the voices had come. All was silent--but a minute
afterwards, she saw Mrs. Hungerford coming through the narrow path in the
thicket: Caroline at first sprang forward to meet her, then stopped short,
her heart beating violently--she thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Hungerford
was accompanied by Count Altenberg; but she was alone. Ashamed of the
hope which had glanced across her mind, and of the sudden stop which had
betrayed her thoughts, Caroline now went forward, blushing.

Mrs. Hungerford embraced her with tenderness, and then assuming a cheerful
tone, "Your mother and sister wanted to persuade me," said she, "that I
should never find my way to you--but I insisted upon it that I could. Had I
not the instinct of a true friend to guide me?--So now let me sit down and
rest myself on this pretty seat--a very comfortable throne!--and that is
saying much for a throne. So these are your territories?" continued she,
looking round, and talking with an air of playfulness, to give Caroline
time to recover herself.

"Why did you never invite me to your garden?--Perhaps, you think me a mere
fire-side, arm-chair old woman, dead to all the beauties of nature; but I
can assure you that I have, all my life, from principle, cultivated this
taste, which I think peculiarly suited to women, salutary not only to their
health, but to their happiness and their virtues--their domestic virtues,
increasing the interest they take in their homes, heightening those
feelings of associated pleasure which extend from persons to places, and
which are at once a proof of the strength of early attachments and a
security for their continuance to the latest period of life. Our friend,
Count Altenberg, was observing to me the other day that we Englishwomen,
among our other advantages, from our modes of life, from our spending so
many months of the year in the country, have more opportunity of forming
and indulging these tastes than is usual among foreign ladies in the
same rank of life. Fortunately for us, we are not like Mr. Clay's French
countess, or duchess, who declared that she hated innocent pleasures."

After mentioning French Clay, Mrs. Hungerford passed to a comparison
between him and Count Altenberg. She had met Mr. Clay in town, and
disliked him. He is an Englishman only by birth, and a Frenchman only by
affectation; Count Altenberg, on the contrary, a foreigner by birth, has
all the tastes and principles that make him worthy to be an Englishman. I
am convinced that, if he had liberty of choice, he would prefer residing in
England to living in any country in the world. Indeed, he expressed that
sentiment at parting from us yesterday."

"He is gone then," said Caroline.

"He is, my love."

Caroline wished to ask where? and whether he was gone for ever? Yet she
continued silent--and became extremely pale.

Mrs. Hungerford, without appearing to take any notice of her emotion,
continued, and answered all the questions which she wished to ask.

"He is gone back to Germany to his own court--recalled, as he told me, by
some imperious duty."

Caroline revived.

"So far you see, my dear, we were right, as those usually are who judge
from general principles. It was not, indeed, to be credited," continued
Mrs. Hungerford, "that a man of his character and understanding should act
merely from caprice. What the nature of the duty may be, whether relating
to his duty as a public or a private man, he did not explain--the latter, I
fear: I apprehend some engagement, that will prevent his return to England.
In this case he has done most honourably, at whatever risk or pain to
himself, to avoid any attempt to engage your affections, my dear; and
you have, in these trying circumstances, acted as becomes your sex and
yourself."

"I hope so," said Caroline, timidly: "my mother and Rosamond endeavoured to
re-assure me on one point--you have seen more since, and must therefore
be better able to judge--Count Altenberg has none of that presumption of
manner which puts a woman upon her guard against his _inferences_. But, in
secret, do you think he ever suspected--"

"I cannot, my love, tell what passes in the secret recesses of man's
heart--much more difficult to penetrate than woman's," replied Mrs.
Hungerford, smiling. "But let this satisfy you--by no word, hint, or look,
could I ever guess that he had formed such a hope. Of your whole family he
spoke in terms of the highest regard. Of you he dared not trust himself
to say much; but the little he did venture to say was expressive of the
highest respect and esteem: more he did not, and ought not, I am convinced,
to have allowed himself."

"I am satisfied--quite satisfied," said Caroline, relieving her heart by
a deep sigh; "and I thank you, my kind Mrs. Hungerford. You have put this
subject at rest for ever in my mind. If Count Altenberg _can_ love me with
honour, he will; if he cannot, Heaven forbid I should wish it!"

From this time forward Caroline never spoke more upon the subject, never
mentioned the name of Count Altenberg. She exerted all the strong command
she possessed over herself to conquer the languor and indolence to which
she had found herself disposed.

It is a difficult task to restore what may be called the tone of the mind,
to recover the power of being acted upon by common and every day motives,
after sensibility has been unusually excited. Where the affections have
been deeply and long engaged, this is a task which the most severe
philosophy cannot accomplish without the aid of time--and of that superior
power which it would be irreverent here to name.

By using no concealment with her friends, by permitting no self-delusion,
by having the courage to confess the first symptom of partiality of which
she was conscious, Caroline put it out of her own power to nourish a
preference into a passion which must ultimately have made herself and her
friends unhappy. Besides the advantages which she derived from her literary
tastes, and her habits of varying her occupations, she at this time found
great resources in her warm and affectionate attachment to her own family.

She had never yet arrived at that state of _egoisme_, which marks the
height of passion, when all interests and affections sink and vanish before
one exclusive and tyrant sentiment.




CHAPTER XXX.


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 _fted_, 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 clat 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 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.

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.




CHAPTER XXXI.


LETTER FROM ALFRED TO HIS FATHER.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"I send you two pamphlets on the causes of the late changes in the
ministry, one by a friend, the other by an enemy, of Lord Oldborough.
Temple, I should have thought the author of the first, but that I know he
has not time to write, and that there does not appear any of that _behind
the scene knowledge_ which his situation affords. All the pamphleteers and
newspaper politicians write as if they knew the whole--some confident that
the ministry split on one question--some on another; long declamations and
abuse follow as usual on each side, but WISE people, and of course myself
among that number, suspect 'that all that we know is, that we know
nothing.' That there was some private intrigue in the cabinet, which has
not yet transpired, I opine from Temple's reserve whenever I have mentioned
the subject. This morning, when I asked him to frank these pamphlets, he
laughed, and said that I was sending coals to Newcastle: what this meant
he refused to explain, or rather he attempted to explain it away, by
observing, that people of good understanding often could judge better at a
distance of what was passing in the political world, than those who were
close to the scene of action, and subject to hear the contradictory reports
of the day; therefore, he conceived that I might be sending materials for
thinking, to one who could judge better than I can. I tormented Temple for
a quarter of an hour with a cross-examination so able, that it was really a
pity to waste it out of the courts; but I could get nothing more from him.
Is it possible, my dear father, that you are at the bottom of all this?

"Lord Oldborough certainly told me the other day, and in a very significant
manner, and, as I now recollect, fixing his inquiring eye upon me as he
said the words, that he not only felt esteem and regard for Mr. Percy, but
_gratitude_--gratitude for tried friendship. I took it at the time as a
general expression of kindness; now I recollect the look, and the pause
after the word gratitude, I put this with Temple's coals to Newcastle. But,
if it be a secret, I must not inquire, and if it be not, you will tell it
to me. So I shall go on to my own affairs.

"The other day I was surprised by a visit at my chambers from an East-India
director. Lord Oldborough, I find, recommended it to him to employ me in
a very important cause, long pending, for a vast sum of money: the whole,
with all its accumulated and accumulating interest, depending on a point of
law. Heaven send me special sense, or special nonsense, sufficient to avoid
a nonsuit, of which there have been already no less than three in this
cause.

"What do you think of Lord Oldborough's kindness? This is only one of many
instances in which I have traced his desire to serve me. It is not common
with politicians, thus to recollect those who have no means of serving
them, and who have never reminded them even of their existence by paying
court in any way actively or passively.

"The Falconers are all discontented with his lordship at this moment,
because he has disposed of a sinecure place on which the commissioner had
long had his eye. His lordship has given it to an old disabled sea-captain,
whom he knew only by reputation.

"The accounts you have heard of Buckhurst's marriage are, alas! too
true; and what you have been told of the lady's age and ugliness is not
exaggerated. As to her temper and her avarice, I am afraid that what you
have heard of them is also true; for a brother lawyer of mine, who was
employed to draw the settlements, says she has taken care to keep every
penny she could in her own power; and that, in the whole course of his
practice, he never saw so hard a battle between love and parsimony. Poor
Buckhurst! who could have foreseen that this would be his fate! I met him
in the street yesterday with his bride, and he looked as if he would rather
be hanged than receive my congratulations: I passed without seeming to have
seen them.

"I have just received Mr. Barclay's letter, and am going to work upon
his settlements. So Caroline's wishes for Lady Mary Pembroke will be
accomplished. I asked Temple whether Lord Oldborough had heard any thing
of Count Altenberg since his return to his own country. Yes--one _private_
letter to Lord Oldborough, from which nothing had transpired but one line
of general thanks for civilities received in England. Temple, who seems
to have formed the same notion and the same wishes that we had, told me
yesterday, without my questioning him, that Lord Oldborough had written
with his own hand an answer to the Count, which none of the secretaries
have seen. Temple, in sealing up the packet, ventured to ask whether there
was any chance of seeing Count Altenberg again in England. 'None that he
knew,' Lord Oldborough answered. Temple, who of all men is least like
Commissioner Falconer in circumlocutory address, at once blurted out, 'Is
Count Altenberg going to be married?' Lord Oldborough turned and looked
upon him with surprise--whether surprise at his curiosity, or at the
improbability of the Count's making his lordship the confidant of his
love-affairs, Temple declares he was in too much confusion to be able to
decide. Lord Oldborough made no reply, but took up an answer to a memorial,
which he had ordered Temple to draw, pointed out some unlucky mistakes in
it, and finished by saying to him, 'Mr. Temple, your thoughts are not in
your business. _Sir, I do believe you are in love_;' which sentence Temple
declares his lordship pronounced with a look and accent that would have
suited, _Sir, I do believe you have the plague_.' And if so, do me the
justice to let me employ Mr. Shaw to do your business, till you are
married.'

"Temple says that Lord Oldborough is proud of showing himself a foe to
love, which he considers as the bane of ambition, and as one of the
weaknesses of human nature, to which a great man ought to be superior.

"Whether the secretary be right or wrong in this opinion of his lordship, I
have not seen enough to be able to determine; and I suspect that Temple
is not at present a perfectly calm observer. Ever since his visit to the
country he seems not to be entirely master of himself: his heart is still
hovering round about some absent object--what object, I do not know; for
though he does not deny my charge, he will not tell me the name of his fair
one. I suspect Lady Frances Arlington of having stolen his heart. I am very
sorry for it--for I am clear she is only coquetting with him. Temple says
that he is too poor to marry. He is so amiable, that I am sure he will make
any woman he marries happy, if it be not her own fault, and if they have
but enough to live upon. It grieves me to hear his unavailing daily regrets
for having quitted the bar. Had he continued in his original profession,
he might, and in all probability would have been, at this moment (as his
competitor, a man much his inferior in talent, actually is), in the receipt
of four thousand good pounds per annum, independent of all men; and might
have married any woman in any rank. Besides, even with such a patron as
Lord Oldborough, Temple feels dependence grievous to his spirit. He is of
a very good family, and was not early used to a subservient situation.
His health too will be hurt by his close confinement to the business of
office--and he has no time for indulging his literary taste--no play
for his genius: that was his original grievance at the bar, but his
present occupations are less congenial to his taste than law ever was.
His brother-secretary, Mr. Shaw, is a mere matter-of-fact man, who is
particularly unsuited to him--an objector to every thing new, a curtailer
and contemner of all eloquence: poor Temple is uneasy and discontented;
he would give up his situation to-morrow but that he cannot quit Lord
Oldborough. He says that he has a hundred times resolved to resign--that he
has had his letter written, and the words on his lips; but he never could,
when it came to the point, present the letter, or pronounce the farewell
to Lord Oldborough. Wonderful the ascendancy this man has over the
mind!--Extraordinary his power of attaching, with manners so little
conciliatory! Adieu, my dear father; I have indulged myself too long in
writing to you. I have to read over the late Mr. Panton's will, and to
give our friend Mr. Gresham an opinion upon it--notwithstanding Rosamond's
cruelty to him, he is as much our friend, and her friend, as ever. Panton's
will is on ten skins of parchment: and then I have a plea in rejoinder to
draw for Lady Jane Granville; and, worse than all, to read and answer four
of her ladyship's notes now on my table. By-the-bye, I would rather carry
on a suit for any four men, than for one such woman of business as poor
Lady Jane. She is never at rest one moment; never can believe that either
lawyer or solicitor knows what he is about--always thinks her letters and
notes can do more than bills in chancery, or than the lord chancellor
himself. She frets incessantly. I must request Erasmus to medicine her to
repose; she has absolutely a _law fever_. Erasmus is at Richmond--sent for
by some _grandee_: he is in high practice. He told me he began last week to
write to Rosamond, from the bedside of some sleeping patient, a full
and true answer to all her questions about Miss Panton; but the sleeper
awakened, and the doctor had never time to finish his story.

"Adieu a second time. Love to all.

"Dear father, yours affectionately,

"ALFRED PERCY.

"Just as I began the second skin of Panton's will, a note was brought to
me from--whom do you think? Lord Oldborough, requesting to see me at four
o'clock. What can his lordship want with me?--I must send this frank before
I can satisfy my own curiosity on this point--or yours, Rosamond."


After finishing the perusal of Mr. Panton's long-winded will, writing an
opinion upon it for Mr. Gresham, and penning a quieting note for poor Lady
Jane Granville, Alfred, eager to be punctual to the appointed hour, went to
the minister. He need not have looked at his watch so often, or have walked
so fast, for when he arrived it wanted five minutes of the time appointed,
and his lordship had not returned from a visit to the Duke of Greenwich. He
was told, however, that orders had been given for his admittance; and he
was shown into an apartment where he had leisure, during a full quarter of
an hour, to admire his own punctuality. At last he heard a noise of loud
huzzas in the street, and looking out of the window, he saw a crowd at the
farthest end of the street; and as it moved nearer, perceived that the
populace had taken the horses from Lord Oldborough's carriage, and were
drawing him to his own door with loud acclamations. His lordship bowed to
the multitude as he got out of his carriage rather proudly and coldly, yet
still the crowd threw up their hats and huzzaed. He apologized to Alfred,
as he entered the room, for having been later than his appointment.
Commissioner Falconer and Mr. Temple were with him, and the commissioner
immediately began to tell how they had been delayed by the zeal of the
people. Lord Oldborough took a paper from his pocket, and walked to the
window to read it, without seeming to hear one word that the commissioner
was saying, and without paying any attention to the acclamations of the
multitude below, which were again repeated on their seeing him at the
window. When his lordship had finished looking over the paper, he called
upon Alfred to witness it, and then presenting it to Mr. Falconer, he said,
in his haughtiest manner, "An equivalent, sir, for that sinecure place
which you asked for, and which it was out of my power to obtain for you.
_That_ was given as the just reward of merit, and of public services. My
private _debts_--" [Alfred Percy observed that his lordship did not use
the word _obligation_]. "My private debts to your family, Mr. Falconer,
could not be paid from the public fund with which I am entrusted, but you
will not, I hope, find me the less desirous that they should be properly
acknowledged. The annuity," continued he, putting his finger on the amount,
which the commissioner longed to see, but at which he had not dared yet to
look, "the annuity is to the full amount of that place which, I think you
assured me, would satisfy your and Mrs. Falconer's expectations".

"Oh! my lord, more than satisfy: but from your lordship's private
fortune--from your lordship's own emoluments of office, I cannot possibly
think--Mrs. Falconer would, I am sure, be excessively distressed--"

"Do me the favour, sir, to let no more be said upon this subject,"
interrupted Lord Oldborough. "As you return home, will you speak to those
poor people whom I still hear in the street, and advise them now to return
peaceably to their homes. My man Rodney, I am afraid, has thought it for my
honour to be too liberal to these good people--but you will speak to them,
commissioner."

The commissioner, who never completely felt Lord Oldborough's character,
imagined that at this moment his lordship secretly enjoyed the clamour
of popular applause, and that this cold indifference was affected; Mr.
Falconer therefore protested, with a smile, that he would do his best
to calm the enthusiasm of the people, but that it was a hard, if not
impossible task, to stem the tide of Lord Oldborough's popularity. "Enjoy
it, my lord!" concluded Mr. Falconer; "Enjoy it!--No minister in my memory
ever was so popular!"

As soon as the commissioner, after saying these words, had left the room,
Lord Oldborough, in a tone of sovereign contempt, repeated the word,
"Popularity! There goes a man, now, who thinks me fit to be a fool to
fame!"

"Popularity," said Mr. Temple, "is a bad master, but a good servant. A
great man will," as Burke says, "disdain to veer like the weathercock
on the temple of fashion with every breath of wind. But may he not, my
lord--say, for you know--may he not wisely take advantage of the gale,
and direct this great _power_, so as to work the state-machinery to good
purpose?"

"A dangerous power," replied Lord Oldborough, turning from his secretary
to Alfred, as if he were impatient to speak of business. Temple, who had
more of the habits of a man of letters than of a man of business or of a
courtier, was apt unseasonably to pursue a discussion, and to pique himself
upon showing sincerity by declaring a difference of opinion from his
patron. Utterly repugnant as this was to the minister's habits and temper,
yet in admiration of the boldness of the man, and in consideration for his
true attachment, Lord Oldborough bore it with magnanimous patience--when he
had time--and when he had not, would cut it short at once.

"In a mixed government, popularity, philosophically speaking, if I may
differ from your lordship--" Temple began.

"Permit me, sir, first," interrupted Lord Oldborough, "to settle my
business with Mr. Alfred Percy, who, being a professional man, and in high
practice, probably sets a just value upon his time."

Mr. Temple, who was a man of quick feelings, felt a word or glance of
reproof from Lord Oldborough with keen sensibility. Alfred could not fix
his own attention upon what his lordship was now beginning to say. Lord
Oldborough saw reflected in Alfred's countenance the disturbance in his
friend's: and immediately returning, and putting a key into Mr. Temple's
hand--"You will do me a service, sir," said he, "by looking over my
father's papers marked _private_ in red letters. They may be necessary in
this business--they are papers which I could trust only to one who has my
interests at heart."

Mr. Temple's face brightened instantly, and bowing much lower than usual,
he received the key with great respect, and hurried away to search for the
papers.

"For a similar reason, Mr. Alfred Percy," said Lord Oldborough, "they
shall, if you please, be put into your hands." His lordship moved a chair
towards Alfred, and seated himself. "My law-agent has not satisfied me of
late. A suit, into which I have been plunged by those who had the direction
of my business, has not been carried on with ability or vigour. I had
not leisure to look into any affairs that merely concerned myself.
Circumstances have just wakened me to the subject, and to the perception
that my private fortune has suffered, and will suffer yet more materially,
unless I am fortunate enough to find united in the same person a lawyer and
a friend. I have looked round and see many older barristers than Mr. Alfred
Percy, but none so likely to be interested in my affairs as the son of my
earliest friend, and few more capable of conducting them with diligence and
ability. May I hope, sir, for hereditary kindness from you, as well as for
professional services?"

No one knew better than Lord Oldborough how to seem receiving whilst he
conferred a favour; and if ever he appeared harsh, it was only where he
knew that the people to whom he spoke had not feelings worthy of his
consideration. His lordship was as much pleased by the manner in which this
trust was accepted, as our young lawyer could be by the manner in which it
was offered.

"My papers then shall be sent to you directly," said Lord Oldborough. "Look
over them, and if you are of opinion that my case is a bad one, I will stop
where I am. If, on the contrary, you find that justice and law are on my
side, proceed, persist. I shall trust the whole to you, sir, without a
farther question."

Lord Oldborough next spoke of a steward of his at Clermont-park, who, as
he had reason to suspect, was leagued with a certain Attorney Sharpe in
fraudulent designs: his lordship hoped that Mr. Alfred Percy, during his
vacations, when spent in that neighbourhood, might, consistently with his
professional duties, find time to see into these affairs; and, in his
lordship's absence, might supply the want of the master's eye.

Alfred assured his lordship that no effort or care should be wanting on his
part to justify the high confidence with which he was honoured.

"Since you are going to take charge of my business, sir," pursued Lord
Oldborough, "it is fit you should know my views relative to my affairs.
In my present situation, with the favour I enjoy, and the opportunities I
command, it would be easy to make my fortune whatever I pleased. Avarice is
not my passion. It is my pride not to increase the burdens of my country.
Mine is a generous country, ever ready to reward her public servants,
living or dying. But, whilst I live, never will I speculate upon her
generosity, and, when I die, never shall my heirs appeal to her compassion.
My power at its zenith, and my character being known, I can afford to
lay aside much of that adventitious splendour which adds nothing to true
dignity. Economy and dignity are compatible--essential to each other. To
preserve independence, and, consequently, integrity, economy is necessary
in all stations. Therefore, sir, I determine--for I am not stringing
sentences together that are to end in nothing--I determine, at this moment,
to begin to make retrenchments in my expenditure. The establishment at
Clermont-park, whither I have no thoughts of returning, may be reduced. I
commit that, sir, to your discretion."

Mr. Temple returned with the papers, on which Lord Oldborough put his seal,
and said his solicitor should deliver them, with all others that were
necessary, the next morning to Mr. Percy. Alfred, careful never to intrude
a moment on the time of the minister, rose, and, without repeating his
thanks, made his bow.

"I consider this lawsuit as a fortunate circumstance," said Lord
Oldborough, "since it affords me means at last of engaging Mr. Alfred
Percy in my service, in a mode which cannot," added his lordship, smiling,
"interfere with his family horror of ministerial patronage."

Alfred said something respectfully expressive of his sense of the
professional advantage he must derive from being employed by Lord
Oldborough--a species of patronage, by which he felt himself most highly
honoured, and for which he was sure his whole family would feel properly
grateful.

"Sir," said Lord Oldborough, following him to the door, "if I had ever
doubted it, you would convince me that perfect propriety of manner is
consistent with independence of mind. As to the rest, we all know the
difference between a client and a patron."

The management of Lord Oldborough's business necessarily led to an increase
of intercourse between his lordship and Alfred, which was peculiarly
agreeable to our young barrister, not only as it gave him opportunities of
seeing more of the character of this minister, but as it put it into his
power to be of service occasionally to his friend Mr. Temple. Chained to
a desk, his genius confined to the forms of office, and with a master too
high, and an associate too low, to afford him any of the pleasures of
society, he had languished for want of a companion. Alfred encouraged him
by example to submit to the drudgery of business, showed him that a man of
letters may become a man of business, and that the habits of both may be
rendered compatible. Temple now performed the duties of his office with
all that regularity which is supposed to be peculiar to dulness. About
this time he had been brought into parliament by Lord Oldborough, and
in the intervals of business, in that leisure which order afforded him,
he employed and concentrated his powers on a political question of
considerable importance; and when he was completely master of the subject,
he rose in the House of Commons, and made a speech, which from all
parties obtained deserved applause. The speech was published. A few days
afterwards, Mr. Temple happened to enter Lord Oldborough's cabinet earlier
than usual: he found his lordship reading; and reading with so much
attention, that he did not observe him--he heard his lordship's quick and
decided pencil mark page after page. At length, rising and turning to throw
the book on the table, Lord Oldborough saw his secretary copying a letter.

"An excellent speech--to the purpose, sir," said Lord Oldborough. "It had
its effect on the house, I understand; and I thank your friend, Mr. Alfred
Percy, for putting it into my hands when I had leisure to peruse it with
attention."

Lord Oldborough thought for some moments, then looked over some official
papers which he had ordered Mr. Temple to draw up.

"Very well, sir--very well. A man of genius, I see, can become a man of
business."

His lordship signed the papers, and, when that was finished, turned again
to Mr. Temple.

"Sir, some time ago a place was vacant, which, I know, you had reason to
expect. It was given to Mr. Shaw, because it was better suited to him
than to you. The manner in which you took your disappointment showed a
confidence in my justice. Have you any objection, Mr. Temple, to the
diplomatic line?"

"I fear--or I should say, I hope--my lord, that I have not the habits of
dissimulation, which, as I have always understood, are necessary to success
in the diplomatic line."

"You have understood wrongly, sir," replied Lord Oldborough. "I, who have
seen something of courts, and know something of diplomacy, am of opinion
that a man of sense, who knows what he is about, who says the thing that
is, who will tell at once what he can do, and what he cannot, would succeed
better as a negotiator in the present state of Europe, than could any
diplomatist with all the simulation and dissimulation of Chesterfield, or
with the tact of Mazarin."

"Indeed, my lord!" said Mr. Temple, looking up with an air of surprise that
almost expressed, Then why did you choose Cunningham Falconer for an envoy?

"Pray," said Lord Oldborough, taking a long inspiration with a pinch of
snuff, "pray with that despatch this morning from Mr. Cunningham Falconer
were there any private letters?"

"One for Commissioner Falconer, my lord."

"None from Count Altenberg to me?"

"None, my lord."

The minister took a walk up and down the room, and then returning to Mr.
Temple, said, "His majesty thinks proper, sir, to appoint you envoy in the
place of Mr. Cunningham Falconer, who is recalled."

"I thank you, my lord--his majesty does me great honour," cried Mr. Temple,
with sudden gratitude: then, his countenance and tone instantly changing
from joy to sorrow, he added, "His majesty does me great honour, my lord,
but--"

"But not great pleasure, it seems, sir," said Lord Oldborough. "I thought,
Mr. Temple, you had trusted to me the advancement of your fortune."

"My fortune! My lord, I am struck with surprise and gratitude by your
lordship's goodness in taking thought for the advancement of my fortune.
But I have other feelings."

"And may I ask what is the nature of your other feelings, sir?"

"My lord--excuse me--I cannot tell them to you."

"One word more, sir. Do you hesitate, from any motives of delicacy with
respect to the present envoy?"

"No, my lord, you look too high for my motive; and the higher I am sensible
that I stand in your lordship's opinion, the greater is my fear of falling.
I beg you will excuse me: the offer that your lordship has had the goodness
to make would be the height of my ambition; but when opposing motives draw
the will in contrary directions--"

"Sir, if you are going into the bottomless pit of metaphysics, excuse me,"
said Lord Oldborough--"there I must leave you. I protest, sir, you are past
my comprehension."

"And past my own," cried Mr. Temple, "for," with effort he uttered the
words, "unfortunately I have formed an--I have become attached to--"

"In short, sir, you are _in love_, I think," said Lord Oldborough, coolly.
"I think I told you so, sir, more than a month ago."

"I have said it! and said it to Lord Oldborough!" exclaimed Mr. Temple,
looking as one uncertain whether he were dreaming or awake.

"It is undoubtedly uncommon to select a minister of state for the confidant
of a love affair," said Lord Oldborough, with an air of some repressed
humour.

"I knew I should expose myself to your lordship's derision," exclaimed Mr.
Temple.

He was too much engrossed by his own feelings, as he pronounced these
words, to observe in his lordship's countenance an extraordinary emotion.
It was visible but for one instant.

With a look more placid, and a tone somewhat below his usual voice, Lord
Oldborough said, "You have misjudged me much, Mr. Temple, if you have
conceived that your feelings, that such feelings would be matter of
derision to me. But since you have touched upon this subject, let me give
you one hint--Ambition _wears_ better than Love."

Lord Oldborough sat down to write, and added, "For one fortnight I can
spare you, Mr. Temple--Mr. Shaw will undertake your part of the business of
office. At the end of the ensuing fortnight, I trust you will let me have
your answer."

Full of gratitude, Mr. Temple could express it only by a bow--and retired.
The antechamber was now filling fast for the levee. One person after
another stopped him; all had some pressing business, or some business which
they thought of consequence, either to the nation or themselves.

"Mr. Temple, I must trouble you to look over these heads of a bill."

"Mr. Temple!--My memorial--just give me your advice."

"Sir--I wrote a letter, three weeks ago, to Lord Oldborough, on the
herring-fishery, to which I have not had the honour of an answer."

"Mr. Temple--the address from Nottingham--Where's the reply?"

"Mr. Temple, may I know whether his lordship means to see us gentlemen from
the city about the loan?"

"Sir--Pray, sir!--My new invention for rifling cannon--Ordnance
department!--Sir, I did apply--War-office, too, sir!--It's very hard
I can't get an answer--bandied about!--Sir, I can't think myself well
used--Government shall hear more."

"One word, Mr. Temple, if you please, about tithes. I've an idea--"

"Temple, don't forget the Littleford turnpike bill."

"Mr. Temple, who is to second the motion on Indian affairs?"

"Temple, my good friend, did you speak to Lord Oldborough about my little
affair for Tom?"

"Mr. Temple, a word in your ear--the member for the borough, _you know_, is
dead; letters must be written directly to the corporation."

"Temple, my dear friend, before you go, give me a frank."

At last Mr. Temple got away from memorialists, petitioners, grievances, men
of business, idle men, newsmen, and dear friends, then hastened to Alfred
to unburden his mind--and to rest his exhausted spirits.




CHAPTER XXXII.


The moment that Mr. Temple reached his friend's chambers, he threw himself
into a chair.

"What repose--what leisure--what retirement is here!" cried he. "A man can
think and feel a moment for himself."

"Not well, I fear, in the midst of the crackling of these parchments,"
said Alfred, folding up the deeds at which he had been at work. "However,
I have now done my business for this day, and I am your man for what you
please--if you are not engaged by some of your great people, we cannot do
better than dine together."

"With all my heart," said Mr. Temple.

"And where shall we dine?" said Alfred.

"Any where you please. But I have a great deal to say to you, Alfred--don't
think of dining yet."

"At the old work!" cried Alfred.

  "'You think of convincing, while I think of dining.'"

But, as he spoke, Alfred observed his friend's agitated countenance, and
immediately becoming serious, he drew a chair beside Mr. Temple, and said,
"I believe, Temple, you have something to say that you are anxious about.
You know that if there is any thing I can do, head, hand, and heart are at
your service."

"Of that I am quite sure, else I should not come here to open my heart to
you," replied Mr. Temple. Then he related all that had just passed between
Lord Oldborough and himself, and ended by asking Alfred, whether he thought
there was any chance of success for his love?

"You have not told me who the lady is," said Alfred.

"Have not I?--but, surely, you can guess."

"I have guessed--but I wish to be mistaken--Lady Frances Arlington?"

"Quite mistaken. Guess again--and nearer home."

"Nearer home!--One of my sisters!--Not Caroline, I hope?"

"No."

"Then it must be as I once hoped. But why did you never mention it to me
before?"

Mr. Temple declared that he had thought there was so little chance of his
ever being in circumstances in which he could marry, especially a woman who
had not some fortune of her own, that he had scarcely ventured to avow,
even to himself, his attachment.

"I thought my love would wear itself out," added he. "Indeed I did not
know how serious a business it was, till this sudden proposal was made to
me of leaving England: then I felt that I should drag, at every step, a
lengthening chain. In plain prose, I cannot leave England without knowing
my fate. But don't let me make a fool of myself, Alfred. No man of sense
will do more than hazard a refusal: that every man ought to do, or he
sacrifices the dignity of the woman he loves to his own false pride. I know
that in these days gentlemen-suitors are usually expert in _sounding_ the
relations of the lady they wish to address. To inquire whether the lady
is engaged or not is, I think, prudent and honourable: but beyond this, I
consider it to be treacherous and base to endeavour, by any indirect means,
to engage relations to say what a lover should learn only from the lady
herself. Therefore, my dear friend, all I ask is whether you have reason to
believe that your sister Rosamond's heart is pre-engaged; or if you think
that there is such a certainty of my being rejected, as ought, in common
prudence, to prevent my hazarding the mortification of a refusal?"

Alfred assured his friend, that, to the best of his belief, Rosamond's
heart was disengaged. "And," continued he, "as a witness is or ought to be
prepared to tell his cause of belief, I will give you mine. Some time since
I was commissioned by a gentleman, who wished to address her, to make the
previous inquiry, and the answer was, quite disengaged. Now as she did
not accept of this gentleman, there is reason to conclude that he did not
engage her affections--"

"Was he rich or poor, may I ask?" interrupted Mr. Temple.

"That is a leading question," said Alfred.

"I do not want you to tell me who the gentleman was--I know that would not
be a fair question, and I trust I should be as far from asking, as you
from answering it. But there are so many rich as well as so many poor men
in the world, that in answering to the inquiry rich or poor, what city or
court man do you name? I want only to draw a general inference as to your
sister's taste for wealth."

"Her taste is assuredly not exclusively for wealth; for her last admirer
was a gentleman of very large fortune."

"I am happy, at least, in that respect, in not resembling him," said Mr.
Temple. "Now for my other question--what chance for myself?"

"Of that, my good friend, you must judge for yourself. By your own rule all
you have a right to hear is, that I, Rosamond's brother, have no reason for
believing that she has such a repugnance to you as would make a refusal
certain. And that you may not too much admire my discretion, I must add,
that if I had a mind to tell you more, I could not. All I know is, that
Rosamond, as well as the rest of my family, in their letters spoke of you
with general approbation, but I do not believe the idea of considering you
as her lover ever entered into her head or theirs."

"But now the sooner it enters the better," cried Mr. Temple. "Will you--can
you--Have not you business to do for Lord Oldborough at Clermont-park?"

"Yes--and I am glad of it, as it gives me an opportunity of indulging
myself in going with you, my dear Temple. I am ready to set out at any
moment."

"God bless you! The sooner the better, then. This night in the mail, if you
please. I'll run and take our places," said he, snatching up his hat.

"Better send," cried Alfred stopping him: "my man can run and take
places in a coach as well as you. Do you stay with me. We will go to the
coffee-house, dine, and be ready to set off."

Mr. Temple acceded.

"In the mean time," said Alfred, "you have relations and connexions of your
own who should be consulted."

Mr. Temple said he was sure that all his relations and connexions would
highly approve of an alliance with the Percy family. "But, in fact," added
he, "that is all they will care about the matter. My relations, though
high and mighty people, have never been of any service to me: they are too
grand, and too happy, to mind whether a younger son of a younger son sinks
or swims; whether I live in single wretchedness or double blessedness. Not
one relation has nature given, who cares for me half as much as the friend
I have made for myself."

Sincerely as Alfred was interested for his success, yet he did not let this
friendship interfere with the justice due to his sister, of leaving _her_
sole arbitress of a question which most concerned her happiness.

During the last stage of their journey, they were lucky enough to have the
coach to themselves, and Mr. Temple made himself amends for the restraint
under which he had laboured during the preceding part of the journey,
whilst he had been oppressed by the presence of men, whose talk was of
the lower concerns of life. After he had descanted for some time on the
perfections of his mistress, he ended with expressing his surprise that his
friend, who had often of late rallied him upon his being in love, had not
guessed sooner who was the object of his passion.

Alfred said that the idea of Rosamond had occurred to him, because his
friend's absence of mind might be dated from the time of his last visit to
Clermont-park; "but," said Alfred, "as Lady Frances Arlington was there,
and as I had formerly fancied that her ladyship's wish to captivate or
dazzle you, had not been quite without effect, I was still in doubt, and
thought even your praises of Rosamond's disposition and temper, compared
with her ladyship's, might only be _ruse de guerre_, or _ruse d'amour_."

"There was no _ruse_ in the case," said Mr. Temple; "I confess that when I
first emerged from my obscurity into all the light and life of the world
of fashion, my eyes were dazzled, and before I recovered the use of them
sufficiently to compare the splendid objects by which I found myself
surrounded, I was wonderfully struck with the appearance of Lady Frances
Arlington, and did not measure, as I ought, the immense difference between
Lord Oldborough's secretary, and the niece of the Duke of Greenwich.
Lady Frances, from mere _gaiet de coeur_ likes to break hearts; and she
continually wishes to add one, however insignificant, to the number of her
conquests. I, a simple man of literature, unskilled in the wicked ways of
the fair, was charmed by her ladyship's innocent navet and frank gaiety,
and all that was

  'Strangely wild, or madly gay,
  I call'd it only pretty Fanny's way.'

"Fortunately, just as I was in imminent danger of exchanging true sighs
for false smiles, I became acquainted with your sister Rosamond. In the
country, and under circumstances more favourable for the development of
character than any which might occur for months or years in a town-life,
where all the men and women are merely actors, I had leisure to see and
mark the difference and the resemblance between Lady Frances Arlington's
character, and that of your sister. They resembled each other in natural
quickness of intellect and of feeling; in wit, sprightliness, and
enthusiasm, they were also to a certain degree alike. I was amused by Lady
Frances Arlington's lively nonsense, till I heard your sister's lively
sense. Her ladyship hazards saying every thing that occurs to her, and
often makes happy hits; but your sister's style of wit is far superior, and
far more agreeable, because it has the grace, elegance, and, above all, the
infinite variety which literary allusion supplies. I found myself pleased,
not only with what she said, but with the trains of ideas, that, by a
single word, she often suggested. Conversing with her, my mind was kept
always active, without ever being over-exerted or fatigued. I can look
back, and trace the whole progress of my attachment. I began in this way,
by finding her conversation most delightful--but soon discovered that she
was not only more entertaining and more cultivated, but far more amiable
than my idol, Lady Frances, because she had never been an idol, and did not
expect to be adored. Then she was more interesting, because more capable
of being interested. Lady Frances requires much sympathy, but gives little;
and for that enthusiasm of temper which had, at first, charmed me in her
ladyship, I began to lose my taste, when I observed that it was always
excited by trifles, and by trifles that concerned herself more than any
one else. I used to think her--what every body calls her, a perfectly
natural character; and so, perhaps, she is: but not the better for
that--since she is what, I am afraid, we all are naturally--selfish. Her
ladyship, if I may use the expression, is enthusiastically selfish. Your
sister--enthusiastically generous. Lady Frances's manners are caressing,
yet I doubt whether she feels affection for any one living, except just at
the moment when they are ministering to her fancies. It was Miss Percy's
warm affection for her sister Caroline which first touched my heart. I saw
each in her own family. The contrast was striking--in short, by the joint
effect of contrast and resemblance, my love for one lady decreased as fast
as it increased for the other; and I had just wit and judgment enough to
escape from snares that could not have held me long, to chains that have
power to hold me for ever."

To this history of the birth and progress of his love, Mr. Temple added
many expressions of his hopes, fears, and regrets, that he had not five
thousand a year, instead of five hundred, to offer his mistress; he at
length became absolutely silent. They were within view of the Hills, and
too many feelings crowded upon his mind to be expressed in words.

And now we might reasonably contrive to fill

  "Twelve vast French romances neatly gilt,"

with the history of the following eventful fortnight, including the first
surprise at the arrival of the travellers--the declaration of Mr. Temple's
love--the astonishment of Rosamond on discovering that she was the object
of this passion--of a passion so generous and ardent--the consequent and
rapid discovery of a hundred perfections in the gentleman which had before
escaped her penetration--the strong peculiar temptation to marry him,
because he had not enough to live upon--the reaction of generosity on the
other side of the question, which forbade to ruin her lover's fortune--the
fluctuations of sentiment and imagination, the delicacies of generosity,
gratitude, love, and finally the decision of common sense.

It was fortunate for Rosamond, not only that she had prudent friends, but
that they had not made her in the least afraid of their superior wisdom, so
that she had, from the time she was a child, told them every idea, as it
rose in her vivid imagination, and every feeling of her susceptible heart;
imprudent as she might appear in her confidential conversation, this never
passed from words to actions. And now, when she was called upon in an
important event of life to decide for herself, she acted with consummate
discretion.

Mr. Temple's character and manners peculiarly pleased her, and his being
a man of birth and family certainly operated much in his favour. Her
parents now, as in Mr. Gresham's case, did not suffer their own tastes or
prepossessions to interfere with her happiness.

Caroline, grateful for the sympathy which Rosamond had always shown her,
took the warmest interest in this affair. Caroline was the most excellent,
indulgent, yet safe confidante; and as a hearer, she was absolutely
indefatigable. Rosamond never found her too busy, too lazy, or too sleepy
to listen to her: late at night, early in the morning, or in the most
hurried moment, of the day, it was all the same--Caroline seemed to have
nothing to do but to hear, think, and feel for Rosamond.

The fortnight allowed by Lord Oldborough having now nearly elapsed, it was
absolutely necessary Rosamond should come to some decision. Mr. Temple's
understanding, temper, disposition, and manners, she allowed to be
excellent--his conversation was particularly agreeable. In short, after
searching in vain for an objection, she was obliged to confess that she
liked him. Indeed, before she had allowed this in words her mother and
sister had made the discovery, and had seen the struggle in her mind
between love and prudence. Mr. Temple's fortune was not sufficient for them
to live upon, and she knew that a wife in his present circumstances must be
a burden to him; therefore, notwithstanding all that his passion and all
that her own partiality could urge, she decidedly refused his proposal of
an immediate union, nor would she enter into any engagement, or suffer him
to bind himself by any promise for the future; but he obtained permission
to correspond with her during his absence from England, and with the hope
that she was not quite indifferent to him, he took leave of her--returned
to town--waited upon Lord Oldborough--accepted of the embassy, and prepared
for his departure to the continent.

Now that there was an approaching possibility and probability of hearing
of Count Altenberg, Caroline felt it extremely difficult to adhere to her
resolution of never thinking of him, especially as her mind, which had been
actively occupied and deeply interested in her sister's concerns, was now
left to return upon itself in all the leisure of retirement. Fortunately
for her, about this time she was again called upon for that sympathy which
she was ever ready to give to her friends. She received the following
letter from Mrs. Hungerford.


LETTER FROM MRS. HUNGERFORD TO MISS CAROLINE PERCY.

"Come, my beloved Caroline, my dear young friend, friend of my family, and
of all who are most near and dear to me--come, and enjoy with me and them
that happiness, which your judicious kindness long since foresaw, and your
prudence promoted.

"My niece, Lady Mary Pembroke, is at last persuaded that she has it in her
power to make Mr. Barclay permanently happy. He has been obliged to take
a considerable length of time to convince her of the steadiness of his
attachment. Indeed, her objection--that he had been charmed by such a
coquette as the lady by whom we first saw him captivated, appeared to me
strong; and I thought my niece right for adhering to it, more especially as
I believed that at the time her affections pleaded against her reason in
his favour, and that, if she had been convinced long ago, it would not have
been against her will.

"Mr. Barclay has behaved like a man of sense and honour. Without disguise
he told her of his former attachment to you. She instantly made an answer,
which raised her high in my estimation. She replied, that Mr. Barclay's
being detached from Lady Angelica Headingham by your superior merit was to
her the strongest argument in his favour. She must, she said, have felt
insecure in the possession of a heart, which had been transferred directly
from Lady Angelica to herself, because she was conscious that her own
disposition was so different from her ladyship's; but in succeeding to the
affection which he had felt for a woman of your character, she should feel
perfect security, or at least reasonable hope, that by similar, though
certainly inferior qualities, she might ensure his happiness and her own.
They are to be married next week. Lady Mary particularly wishes that you
should be one of her bride-maids--come then, my love, and bring all my
_Percys_. I shall not perfectly enjoy my own and my niece's happiness till
you share it with me. My daughter Mortimer insists upon signing this as
well as myself.

"MARY-ELIZABETH HUNGERFORD.

"KATE MORTIMER."


Caroline and _all Mrs. Hungerford's Percys_ obeyed her summons with
alacrity. Lady Mary Pembroke's marriage with Mr. Barclay was solemnized
under the happiest auspices, and in the midst of approving and sympathizing
friends. As soon as the ceremony was over, and she had embraced and
congratulated her niece, Mrs. Hungerford turned to Mrs. Percy, and in a low
voice said, "If it were not too much for one so happy as I am, so rich in
blessings, to ask one blessing more, I should ask to be permitted to live
to see the day when our dear Caroline--" Mrs. Hungerford pressed Mrs.
Percy's hand, but could say no more; the tears rolled down her cheeks
as she looked up to heaven. Some minutes afterwards, following Caroline
with her eyes, "Look at her, Mrs. Percy!" said Mrs. Hungerford. "Did ever
selfish coquette, in the height of triumph over lover or rival, enjoy
such pleasure as you see sparkling at this moment in that dear girl's
countenance?"

The bride and bridegroom set off immediately for Mr. Barclay's seat in
Berkshire. Lady Florence accompanied her sister; and Mrs. Hungerford, after
parting from both her nieces, entreated that Caroline might be left with
her. "It is a selfish request, I know, my dear; but at my age I cannot
afford to be generous of the society of those I love. Allow me to plead my
age, and my--Well, I will not say more since I see it gives you pain, and
since I see you will grant the prayer of my petition, rather than hear my
claims to your compassion."

Caroline liked particularly to stay with Mrs. Hungerford at this time, when
there was not any company at the castle, no one but Mrs. Hungerford and her
daughter, so that she had the full and quiet enjoyment of their society.
At this time of her life, and in the state of her mind at this period, no
society could have been more agreeable, soothing, and useful to Caroline,
than that of such a friend. One, who had not forgotten the passions of
youth; who could give at once sympathy and counsel; who was willing to
allow to love its full and exquisite power to exalt the happiness of human
life, yet appeared herself, in advanced and serene old age, a constant
example of the falsehood of the notion, that the enthusiasm of passion is
essential to felicity. An elegant and just distinction has been made by a
philosophical writer between _delicacy of passion_ and _delicacy of taste_.
One leading to that ill-governed susceptibility, which transports the soul
to ecstasy, or reduces it to despair, on every adverse or prosperous change
of fortune; the other enlarging our sphere of happiness, by directing
and increasing our sensibility to objects of which we may command the
enjoyment, instead of wasting it upon those over which we have no control.
Mrs. Hungerford was a striking example of the advantage of cultivating
_delicacy of taste_.

At an advanced age, she showed exquisite perception of pleasure in every
work of genius; in conversation, no stroke of wit or humour escaped her
quick intelligence, no shade of sentiment or politeness was lost upon her;
and on hearing of any trait of generosity or greatness of soul, her whole
countenance beamed with delight; yet with all this quickness of feeling
she was quite free from fastidiousness, and from that irritability about
trifles, into which those who indulge _the delicacy of passion_ in youth
are apt to degenerate in age. Caroline felt, every day, increasing
affection as well as admiration for Mrs. Hungerford, and found time
pass delightfully in her company. Besides that general and well-chosen
acquaintance with literature which supplied her with perpetual resources,
she had that knowledge of life and of the world which mixes so well, in
conversation, with the knowledge of books. She had known, intimately, most
of the celebrated people of the last century, and had store of curious and
interesting anecdotes, which she produced with so much taste and judgment,
and told so well, as never to fatigue attention. Caroline found that her
mind was never passive or dormant in Mrs. Hungerford's company; she was
always excited to follow some train of thought, to discuss some interesting
question, or to reflect upon some new idea. There was, besides, in the
whole tenor of her conversation and remarks such an indulgence for human
nature, with all its faults and follies, as left the most pleasing and
encouraging impression on the mind, and inspired hope and confidence. Her
anecdotes and her philosophy all tended to prove that there is more virtue
than vice, more happiness than misery, in life; and, above all, that there
is a greater probability that the world should improve than that it should
degenerate. Caroline felt pleased continually to find her own favourite
opinions and hopes supported and confirmed by the experience and judgment
of such a woman; and there was something gratifying to her, in being thus
distinguished and preferred by one who had read so much and thought so
deeply.

As Mrs. Hungerford had heard nothing more of Count Altenberg, she wisely
forbore to touch upon the subject, or even to mention his name to Caroline;
and she saw, with satisfaction, the care with which her young friend
turned her mind from every dangerous recollection. Sometimes, however, the
remembrance of the Count was unavoidably recalled; once, in particular, in
turning over the life of Sir Philip Sidney, there was a passage copied in
his hand, on a slip of paper, which had accidentally been left in the book.


"Algernon Sidney, in a letter to his son, says, that in the whole of his
life he never knew one man, of what condition soever, arrive at any degree
of reputation in the world, who made choice of, or delighted in the company
or conversation of those, who in their qualities were inferior, or in their
parts not much superior to himself."


"What have you there, my love? Something that pleases and interests you
particularly, I see," said Mrs. Hungerford, not knowing what it was that
Caroline was reading: "show it me, my dear--I am sure I shall like it."

Caroline, deeply blushing, gave her the paper. She recollected the
hand-writing, and folding up the paper, put it in her pocket-book.

"It is an observation," said she, "that I wish I could write in letters of
gold for the advantage of all the young men in the world in whom I take any
interest."

The energetic warmth with which Mrs. Hungerford spoke relieved Caroline,
as it seemed to justify the delight she had involuntarily expressed--the
sentiments for the individual seemed now enveloped in general approbation
and benevolence. She never loved Mrs. Hungerford better than at this
instant.

Mrs. Hungerford observed that none of the common sentimental passages,
either in poetry or novels, ever seemed to affect Caroline; and to the
romantic descriptions of love she was so indifferent that it might have
appeared to a common observer as if she was, and ever would be, a stranger
to the passion. By the help of the active and plastic powers of the
imagination, any and every hero of a novel could be made, at pleasure,
to appear the exact resemblance of each lady's different lover. Some,
indeed, professed a peculiar and absolute exclusive attachment, founded
on unintelligible or indescribable merits or graces; but these ladies,
of all others, she had found were most liable to change, and on farther
acquaintance with the world to discover, on generalizing their notions,
similar or superior attractions in new models of perfection. In Caroline,
Mrs. Hungerford saw none of these capricious fancies, and that it was not
her imagination, but her reason which gave Count Altenberg the exalted
place he held in her esteem. It was therefore with pleasure, that this kind
lady perceived, that her young friend's residence with her soothed her mind
and restored it to its former tone.

But Caroline was soon obliged to leave Hungerford Castle, A letter from
Erasmus informed her that poor Lady Jane Granville was ill of a nervous
fever, that she had no companion, no one to attend her but a maid-servant,
and that she was much in want of some judicious friend who could raise
her spirits and tranquillize her mind, which was in a state of continual
agitation about her lawsuit. Caroline, remembering Lady Jane's former
kindness, thought this a fit opportunity to show her gratitude; and, happy
as she was with her friends at Hungerford Castle, she hesitated not a
moment to sacrifice her own pleasure.--Her father and mother approved of
her determination, and her brother Alfred carried her to London.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


In these days, people travel with so much safety, ease, and celerity,
that heroines have little chance of adventures on the road; and a journey
is now so common a thing, that, as Rosamond observed, the most brilliant
imagination has no hope of having wonders to relate. To Rosamond's
mortification, Caroline and her brother reached London without any event
having occurred better worth recording than the loss of an umbrella.
They drove into town when it was nearly dark, just before the lamps were
lighted; Caroline, therefore, had little satisfaction from the first
view of the metropolis. She found Lady Jane Granville in a small lodging
in Clarges-street--the room dark--a smell of smoke--the tea-equipage
prepared--Lady Jane lying on a shabby-looking sofa--drops and a
smelling-bottle on a little table beside her. She raised herself as
Caroline entered, looked half pleased, half ashamed to see her; and,
stretching out her hand, said, in a complaining voice, "Ah! my dear
Caroline, are you really come? This is too good! Sadly changed, you
find--and every thing about me--Sit down, my dear--Keppel, do let us have
tea as soon as you can," said Lady Jane.

"As soon as ever Eustace comes in, my lady," answered Keppel, peevishly.

"In the mean time, for Heaven's sake, allow us a little more light--I
cannot live without light. Come nearer to me, my dear Caroline, and tell me
how did you leave all our friends at the Hills?"

Whilst Caroline was answering her ladyship, more candles were brought,
and Lady Jane moved them on the table till she threw the light full on
Caroline's face.

"Handsomer than ever! And altogether so _formed_. One would not think,
Alfred, she had been buried all this time in the country. Ah! perverse
child; why would not you come when I could have been of some use to
you--when, at least, I could, have received you as I ought? This is not
a fit place, you see; nor am I now in circumstances, or in a style of
life--Heigho!"

"Dr. Percy is not come yet," resumed she. "This is his usual hour--and I
wrote a note to tell him that he would meet his sister Caroline to-night."

In all her ladyship said, in every look and motion, there was the same
nervous hurry and uneasiness. Dr. Percy arrived, and for a moment Lady
Jane forgot herself in sympathy with the pleasure the brother and sister
showed at meeting. Soon, however, she would have relapsed into melancholy
comparisons, but, that Dr. Percy checked the course of her thoughts; and
with the happy art, by which a physician of conversational powers can amuse
a nervous patient, he, without the aid of poppy or mandragora, medicined
her to rest, though not to sleep.

When Erasmus was alone with his sister, he observed that no permanent
amendment could be expected in Lady Jane's health till her mind should
be at ease about her lawsuit. While this was undecided, her imagination
vacillated between the horror of neglected poverty, and the hopes of
recovering her former splendour and consideration. The lawsuit was not to
be decided for some weeks, and Caroline saw that all that could be done
in the mean time was as much as possible to soothe and amuse her patient:
however tiresome and difficult the task, she went through it with the
utmost cheerfulness and sweetness of temper. Day after day she passed alone
with Lady Jane, hearing her complaints, bodily and mental, and listening to
the eternally repeated history of her lawsuit. But Caroline's patience
was ensured by a sense of gratitude, which, in her, was not a sentimental
phrase, but a motive for long endurance, still more difficult than active
exertion.

One half hour in the day, however, she was sure of being happy--the half
hour when her brother Erasmus paid his visit. Of Alfred she saw little,
for he was so much engaged with business, that a few minutes now and then
were all he could possibly spare from his professional duties. Mr. Temple
called. She was surprised to see him, for she thought he had been on his
way to the continent; but he told her that difficulties had occurred,
chiefly through the manoeuvres of Cunningham Falconer, and that he did not
know when there would be an end of these--that Lord Oldborough was glad
of the delay at present, because he wanted Mr. Temple's assistance, as
the other secretary had been taken ill, and his lordship had not yet
fixed upon a confidential person to supply his place. Of course, in
these circumstances, Mr. Temple was so much occupied, that Caroline saw
very little of him; and she experienced what thousands have observed,
that, however people may wish to meet in great towns, it is frequently
impracticable, from small difficulties as to time, distance, and
connexions. Of Mr. Gresham, Caroline had hoped that she should see a great
deal--her brother Erasmus had long since introduced him to Lady Jane
Granville; and, notwithstanding his being a merchant, her ladyship liked
him. He was as much disposed as ever to be friendly to the whole Percy
family; and the moment he heard of Caroline's being in town, he hastened to
see her, and showed all his former affectionate regard in his countenance
and manner. But his time and his thoughts were now engrossed by an affair
very near his heart, which he was impatient to bring to a termination. As
soon as this should be accomplished, he was to set out for Amsterdam, where
the concerns of his late partner, old Mr. Panton, as his correspondents
wrote, imperiously demanded his presence.

This affair, which was so near Mr. Gresham's heart, related to his dear
Constance. Alfred had alluded to it in one of his letters, and Erasmus had
begun to write the particulars to Rosamond; but he had not at the time
leisure to finish the letter, and afterwards burnt it, being uncertain
how the romance, as Alfred called it, might end. He therefore thought it
prudent to say nothing about it. The whole story was now told to Caroline,
and, briefly, was this.

After old Panton's rage against Dr. Percy, in consequence of the suspicion
that his daughter was in love with him; after the strange wig-scene, and
the high words that followed, had driven Erasmus from the house, Constance
went to her father, and, intent upon doing justice to Erasmus, at whatever
hazard to herself, protested that he had not been the cause of her refusal
of Lord Roadster. To convince her father of this, she confessed that her
heart was not entirely disengaged--no threats, no persuasion, could,
however, draw from her the name of the person whom she preferred: she knew
that to name him would be only to ruin his fortune--that her father never
would consent to her marrying him; nor had the object of her preference
ever given her reason to think that he felt any thing more for her than
regard and respect. Old Panton, the last man in the world to understand any
delicacies, thought her whole confession "_nonsense_:" the agitation and
hesitation with which it was made, and her eagerness to clear Dr. Percy's
credit, and to reinstate him in her father's favour, conspired to convince
the old man that his "own first original opinion was right." Of this,
indeed, he seldom needed any additional circumstances to complete the
conviction on any occasion. During the remainder of his life he continued
obstinate in his error: "If she likes any body else, why can't the girl
name him? Nonsense--that cursed Dr. Percy is the man, and he never shall
be the man." In this belief old Panton died, and what is of much more
consequence, in this belief he made his will. On purpose to exclude Dr.
Percy, and in the hope of accomplishing his favourite purpose of ennobling
his descendants, he, in due legal form, inserted a clause in his will,
stating, "that he bequeathed his whole fortune (save his wife's dower)
to his beloved daughter, upon condition, that within the twelve calendar
months next ensuing, after his decease, she, the said Constance, should
marry a man not below the rank of the son of a baron. But in case she, the
said Constance, should not marry within the said twelve calendar months,
or should marry any man below the rank of a baron, then and after the
expiration of said twelve calendar months, the said fortune to go to his
beloved wife, except an annuity of two hundred pounds a year, to be paid
thereout to his daughter Constance." Mr. Gresham was appointed sole
executor to his will. As soon as it was decently possible, after old
Panton's decease, Lord Roadster renewed his suit to Constance, and was
civilly but very steadily refused. Many other suitors, coming within the
description of persons favoured by the will, presented themselves, but
without success. Some making their application to Constance herself, some
endeavouring to win her favour through the intercession of her guardian,
Mr. Gresham--all in vain. Month after month had passed away, and Mr.
Gresham began to be much in dread, and Mrs. Panton, the step-mother,
somewhat in hopes, that the twelve calendar months would elapse without
the young lady's having fulfilled the terms prescribed by the will. Mr.
Gresham, one morning, took his fair ward apart, and began to talk to her
seriously upon the subject. He told her that he thought it impossible she
should act from mere perverseness or caprice, especially as, from her
childhood upwards, he had never seen in her any symptoms of an obstinate or
capricious disposition; therefore he was well convinced that she had some
good reason for refusing so many offers seemingly unexceptionable: he
was grieved to find that he had not sufficiently won or deserved her
confidence, to be trusted with the secret of her heart. Constance, who
revered and loved him with the most grateful tenderness, knelt before him;
and clasping his hand in hers, while tears Tolled over her blushing cheeks,
endeavoured to speak, but could not for some moments. At last, she assured
him that delicacy, and the uncertainty in which she was whether she was
beloved, were the only causes which had hitherto prevented her from
speaking on this subject, even to him, who now stood in the place of her
father, and who had ever treated her with more than a father's kindness.

Mr. Gresham named Erasmus Percy.

"No."

"Mr. Henry!"

"How was it possible that Mr. Gresham had never thought of him?"

Mr. Gresham had thought of him--had suspected that Mr. Henry's love for
Constance had been the cause of his quitting England--had admired the young
man's honourable silence and resolution--had recalled him from Amsterdam,
and he was now in London.

But young Henry, who knew nothing of Mr. Gresham's favourable disposition
towards him, who had only commercial correspondence with him, and knew
little of his character, considered him merely as the executor of Mr.
Panton, and, with this idea, obeyed his summons home to settle accounts.
When they met, he was much surprised by Mr. Gresham's speaking, not of
accounts, but of Constance. When Mr. Gresham told him the terms of Mr.
Panton's will, far from appearing disappointed or dejected, Mr. Henry's
face flushed with hope and joy. He instantly confessed to her guardian
that he loved Constance passionately; and that now, when it could not be
supposed he had mercenary views; now, when no duty, no honour forbad him,
he would try his fate. He spoke with a spirit given by strong passion long
repressed, and with a decision of character which his modesty and reserve
of manner had, till now, prevented from appearing.

"Did he consider," Mr. Gresham asked, "what he expected Miss Panton to
sacrifice for him?"

"Yes, fortune, not duty--duty he could never have asked her to sacrifice;
he could not have esteemed her if she _had_ sacrificed duty. As to the
rest," added he, proudly, "Miss Panton is now to decide between love and
fortune."

"This from the modest Mr. Henry! from whom, till this moment, I never heard
a syllable that savoured of presumption!" said Mr. Gresham.

Mr. Henry was silent--and stood with an air of proud determination.
Regardless of the surprise and attention with which Mr. Gresham considered
him during this silence, he thought for a few moments, and asked, "Sir,
when may I see Miss Panton?"

"And would you," said Mr. Gresham, "if it were in your power, sir, reduce
the woman you love from opulence to poverty--to distress?"

"I have four hundred a year, Miss Panton has two--six hundred a year is not
poverty, sir. Distress--the woman I marry shall never know whilst I have
life and health. No, sir, this is not romance. Of my perseverance in
whatever I undertake, even when least congenial to my habits, you have had
proofs. Mr. Gresham, if Miss Panton approves of me, and if love can make
her happy, I fear not to assert to you, her guardian, that I will make her
happy. If she love me not, or," added he, his whole countenance changing
from the expression of ardent love to that of cold disdain, "or, if love be
not in her mind superior to fortune, then I have little to regret. Wealth
and honours wait her command. But," resumed he, "the trial I will make--the
hazard I will run. If I am mistaken--if I am presumptuous--the humiliation
be mine--the agony all my own: my heart will bear it--or--break!"

"Heroics!" said Mr. Gresham. "Now let me ask--"

"Let me ask, sir--pardon me," interrupted Mr. Henry--"Let me beg to see
Miss Panton."

"Stay, listen to me, young man--"

"Young gentleman, sir, if you please."

"Young gentleman, sir, if you please," repeated Mr. Gresham, mildly;
"I can make allowance for all this--you were bred a soldier, jealous
of honour--but listen to me: there is one thing I must tell you before
you see Miss Panton--though I apprehend it may somewhat mortify you,
as it will interfere with your boast of disinterestedness and your
vow of poverty--Miss Panton I have from her cradle been in the habit
of considering partly as my own--my own child--and, as such, I have
left her in my will ten thousand pounds. As she will want this money
before my death, if she marries you, I must convert my legacy into a
marriage-portion, and you shall not, sir, have love without fortune,
whatever your heroics may think of it. Now go to your mistress, and keep my
secret."

Young Henry was evidently more touched by this generosity than by this
bounty; and with a gentleness and humility the most feeling he said, "How
shall I thank you, sir, for bearing with me as you did?"

"Oh!" said Mr. Gresham, "old as I am, I know what it is to be in love, and
can conceive too what it is to fear that a guardian might be cross, and
that the executor and the partner of Mr. Panton might act like Mr. Panton
himself. Say no more--I understand it all, you see--Go to your Constance."

Even in the haughtiness and spirit this young man had shown, Mr. Gresham
saw the sincerity, strength, and disinterestedness of his affection; and in
Mr. Gresham's estimation these were no trifling merits. We pass over--shall
we be forgiven?--the love scenes between Mr. Henry and Constance. In these
cases it is well when there is some sober friend to look to the common
sense of the thing, and in the midst of the exaltation to do the necessary
business of life. Mr. Gresham laid Mr. Panton's will before counsel learned
in the law, took opinions from two different counsel; from Alfred Percy,
whose friendship was likely to quicken his attention, and from another
barrister of long standing, who, being totally unconnected with the parties
might probably give a perfectly unbiassed and dispassionate advice. Both
agreed that there was no avoiding the clause in the will; that Miss Panton,
if she married a man below the rank of a baron's son, must give up her
fortune to her step-mother at the end of twelve calendar months from the
time of her father's decease; but both barristers gave it as their opinion,
that the income during those twelve months belonged to Constance: this was
a considerable sum, which, by Mr. Gresham's advice, was to be vested with
the rest of Mr. Henry's capital in the firm of the house of Panton and Co.
In consequence of Mr. Gresham's earnest recommendation, and of his own
excellent conduct and ability, Mr. Henry was from this time joined in the
firm, and as one of the partners had a secure income proportioned to his
part of the capital, besides a share in the very advantageous speculations
in which the house was engaged. Mr. Gresham undertook to supply Mr. Henry's
place at Amsterdam, whither he was under the necessity of going. His house
he would leave to Constance during his absence. She had best begin by
taking possession of it, and establish herself there, he observed, that she
might not have the inconvenience and mortification of being turned out of
her own at the end of the year. "And if," said he, "I should be able, when
I return, to make Mr. Henry's residence with me agreeable to him, I shall
hope he will not, while I live, take my Constance quite away from me--I
look to her as my chief happiness in life."

If Rosamond had heard the sigh which closed this speech, and if she had
seen the simplicity and delicacy of Mr. Gresham's generosity on this
occasion, she would have reproached herself for refusing him, and would
almost have reasoned herself into the belief that she had done very wrong
not to marry him; but this belief would only, _could_ only, have lasted
till she should see Mr. Temple again: so that, upon the whole, it was best
for poor Mr. Gresham that she knew nothing of the matter.

All things being arranged thus in the kindest and most convenient manner by
this excellent man, and the day being fixed for the marriage of Constance
and Mr. Henry, Caroline was asked to be bride's-maid, and the honour of
Lady Jane Granville's company was requested. It is inconceivable how much
importance Lady Jane attached to the idea of her accepting or refusing
this request, and the quantity she talked about it was wonderful!
Notwithstanding the habitual theme of her being of no consequence now to
any one, of her being utterly forgotten and out of the world, yet she had
still a secret, very secret belief, that all she did would be known and
commented upon; and she worked herself up to think, also, that the honour
to be conferred, or the offence that would be taken in consequence of her
decision, would be immortal. Every five minutes for two hours after the
first reading of Mr. Gresham's note, she took it up, laid it down, and
argued the matter pro and con to Caroline.

A long and loud knocking at the door came to Caroline's relief: it was
repeated with imperious impatience. "Who is it, my dear? look out of the
window, but don't let yourself be seen."

Caroline did not know any of the fashionable equipages, which to Lady Jane
appeared a great defect in her education: upon this occasion, however, she
thought she recollected the livery to be Mrs. Falconer's.

"Oh! no, my dear, quite impossible--the Falconers have not been near me
this age. I will tell you whose livery it is--there is a resemblance,
but it is astonishing to me a girl of your sense cannot learn the
difference--it is old Lady Brangle's livery."

"It might very possibly be so," Caroline allowed.

The servant however brought in cards and a note from Mrs. Falconer--the
note was to announce to Lady Jane Granville the approaching marriage of
Miss Falconer with Sir Robert Percy--the day was named, and the honour of
Lady Jane Granville's company was requested at the wedding. Lady Jane knew
that this communication was made, not in the least in the kindness, but in
the pride of Mrs. Falconer's heart; and precisely in the same spirit in
which it was written Lady Jane thought it incumbent upon her to receive and
answer it. Her ladyship was really warm and honest in her friendships, and
very grateful to _her branch_ of the Percy family, for the kindness they
had shown her in adversity.

"I think it extremely ill-judged and ill-bred of Mrs. Falconer to invite
me to this wedding. Does she think I have no feeling? My own near
relations and best friends deprived of their birth-right by this Sir
Robert Percy--does she conceive it possible that I _could_ go to such a
wedding?--No; nor did she wish or expect it; she only wrote from vanity,
and I shall answer her with pride, which, at least, is somewhat superior to
that mean passion; and I shall go, I am now determined, to Mr. Gresham's--I
do nothing by halves."

Her ladyship immediately wrote answers to both the invitations. Nothing for
months had done her so much good as the exertion, interest, and imaginary
self-importance these two notes created. At Mr. Gresham's on the day of the
wedding her ladyship appeared with great dignity, and was satisfied that
she had conferred honour and serious obligation. Could she have seen into
the minds of all the company, she would have been astonished to find how
little she occupied their thoughts. It would be difficult to determine
whether it is more for the happiness or misery of man and womankind that
politeness should cherish, or truth destroy, these little delusions of
self-love.

Presently there appeared in the newspapers a splendid account of the
marriage at St. George's church, Hanover-square, of Sir Robert Percy, of
Percy-hall, with Arabella, the eldest daughter of J. Falconer, Esquire:
present at the ceremony was a long list of _fashionable friends_, who, as
Lady Jane Granville observed, "would not have cared if the bride had been
hanged the next minute." The happy pair, after partaking of an elegant
collation, set out in a barouche and four for Percy-hall, the seat of Sir
Robert Percy.

"So!" cried Lady Jane, throwing down the paper, "Mrs. Falconer has
accomplished that match at last, and has got one of her daughters well off
her hands--the ugly one too. Upon my word, she is amazingly clever. But,
after all, the man has a horrid temper, and a very bad character. Now it
is over, my dear Caroline, I must tell you, that long ago, before I was so
well aware of what sort of a man he was, I had formed the plan of marrying
him to you, and so uniting the two branches, and bringing the estate into
your family; but we have often reason to rejoice that our best-concerted
schemes don't succeed. I give Mrs. Falconer joy. For worlds I would not
have such a man married to any relation or friend of mine--Oh! if I recover
my fortune, Caroline, I have hopes for you!"

Her ladyship was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Gresham, who came to
take leave, as he was just setting out for Holland. He was a man who said
less and did more for his friends, as Caroline observed, than almost any
person she knew. On seeing his gallery of paintings, she had noticed some
beautiful miniatures; he now brought all those which she had admired, and
begged to leave them with her during his absence, that she might at her
leisure copy any of them she liked. He knew she painted in miniature, for
he had long ago, when at the Hills, seen her copy of M. de Tourville's
picture of Euphrosyne.

"If," said Mr. Gresham, observing that Caroline scrupled to take charge of
so many precious pictures, "if you are too proud to receive from me the
slightest kindness without a return, I am willing to put myself under an
obligation to you. While I am away, at your leisure, make me a copy of that
Euphrosyne--I shall love it for your sake, and as reminding me of the time
when I first saw it--the happiest time perhaps of my life," added he, in a
low voice.

"Oh, Rosamond!" thought Caroline, "if you had heard that!--and if you knew
how generously kind he has been to your brothers!"

At parting from Alfred and Erasmus, he said to them, "My good young
friends, why don't either of you marry? To be sure, you are young enough;
but think of it in time, and don't put off, put off, till you grow into old
bachelors. I know young men generally in these days say, they find it too
expensive to marry--some truth in that, but more selfishness: here's young
Mr. Henry has set you a good example. Your practice in your professions,
I suppose, puts you as much at ease in the world by this time as he is.
Malthus, you know, whom I saw you studying the other day, objects only to
people marrying before they can maintain a family. Alfred, when I was at
the Hills, I heard of a certain Miss Leicester. If you shall think of
marrying before I come back again, you'll want a house, and I've lent mine
already--but money, you know, can place one in any part of the town you
might like better--I have a sum lying idle at my bankers, which I have just
had transferred to the account of Alfred and Erasmus Percy--whichever of
you marry before I come back, must do me the favour to purchase a good
house--I must have it at the polite end of the town, or I shall be worse
than an old bachelor--let me find it well furnished and aired--nothing airs
a house so well as a warm friend: then, you know, if I should not fancy
your purchase, I leave it on your hands, and you pay me the purchase-money
year by year, at your leisure--if you can trust that I will not throw you
into jail for it."

The warmth of Alfred's thanks in particular showed Mr. Gresham that he had
not been mistaken about Miss Leicester.

"I wish I had thought, or rather I wish I had spoken of this sooner," added
Mr. Gresham: "perhaps I might have had the pleasure of seeing you married
before my leaving England; but--no--it is best as it is--I might have
hurried things--and in these matters every body likes to go their own pace,
and their own way. So fare ye well--God bless you both, and give you good
wives--I can ask nothing better for you from Heaven."

No man could he more disposed than Alfred felt himself at this instant to
agree with Mr. Gresham, and to marry immediately--visions of beauty and
happiness floated before his imagination; but a solicitor knocking at the
door of his chambers recalled him to the sense of the sad necessity of
finishing some law-papers instead of going into the country to see his fair
mistress. His professional duty absolutely required his remaining in town
the whole of this term--Lady Jane Granville's business, in particular,
depended upon him--he gave his mind to it. She little knew how difficult
it was to him at this time to fix his attention, or how much temper it
required in these circumstances to bear with her impatience. The week
before her cause was expected to come to trial, her ladyship's law-fever
was at its height--Alfred avoided her presence, and did her business.

The day arrived--her cause came on--Alfred's exertions proved
successful--and hot from the courts he brought the first joyful news--a
decree in her favour!

Lady Jane started up, clasped her hands, embraced Alfred, embraced
Caroline, returned thanks to Heaven--again and again, in broken sentences,
tried to express her gratitude. A flood of tears came to her relief. "Oh!
Alfred, what pleasure your generous heart must feel!"

From this day--from this hour, Lady Jane's health rapidly recovered; and,
as Erasmus observed, her lawyer had at last proved her best physician.

When Caroline saw Lady Jane restored to her strength, and in excellent
spirits, preparing to take possession of a handsome house in
Spring-Gardens, she thought she might be spared to return to her own
family. But Lady Jane would not part with her; she insisted upon keeping
her the remainder of the winter, promising to carry her back to the Hills
in a few weeks. It was plain that refusing this request would renew the ire
of Lady Jane, and render irreconcilable the quarrel between her ladyship
and the Percy family. Caroline felt extremely unwilling to offend one whom
she had obliged, and one who really showed such anxiety for her happiness.

"I know, my dear Lady Jane," said she, smiling, "that if I stay with you,
you will form a hundred kind schemes for my establishment; but forgive
me when I tell you, that it is upon the strength of my belief in the
probability that they will none of them be accomplished, that I consent to
accept your ladyship's invitation."

"Perverse! provoking and incomprehensible!--But since you consent to
stay, my dear, I will not quarrel with your motives: I will let them rest
as philosophically unintelligible as you please. Be satisfied, I will
never more accuse you of perversity in refusing me formerly; nor will I
convict you of inconsistency for obliging me now. The being convicted
of inconsistency I know is what you people, who pique yourselves upon
being rational, are so afraid of. Now we _every-day people_, who make
no pretensions to be reasonable, have no character for consistency to
support--you cannot conceive what delightful liberty we enjoy. In lieu of
whole tomes of casuistry, the simple phrase, 'I've changed my mind,' does
our business. Do let me hear if you could prevail upon yourself to say so."

"I've changed my mind," said Caroline, playfully.

"That's candid--now I love as well as admire you."

"To be entirely candid, then," said Caroline, "I must, my dear Lady Jane,
if you will give me leave, tell you more."

"As much as you please," said Lady Jane, "for I am naturally curious,
particularly when young ladies blush."

Caroline thought, that however Lady Jane and she might differ on some
points, her ladyship's anxiety to promote her happiness, in the way
she thought most advantageous, deserved not only her gratitude but her
confidence. Besides, it would be the most effectual way, she hoped, of
preventing Lady Jane from forming any schemes for her establishment, to
confess at once that she really believed it was not likely she should meet
with any person, whose character and merits were equal to those of Count
Altenberg, and any one inferior to him she was determined never to marry.
She added a few words, as delicately as she could, upon the dread she felt
of being presented in society as a young lady wishing for an establishment.

Lady Jane heard all she said upon this subject with much attention; but
when she had finished, her ladyship said to herself, "Nonsense!--Every
young lady thinks one lover perfect till she has seen another. Before
Caroline has passed a month in fashionable society, provided she has a
fashionable admirer, we shall hear no more of this Count Altenberg."

"Well, my dear," said she, holding out her hand to Caroline, "I will
give you my word I will, to the best of my ability, comply with all your
conditions. You shall not be advertised as a young lady in search of a
husband--but just as if you were a married woman, you will give me leave
to introduce my acquaintance to you; and if they should find out, or if in
time you should find out, that you are not married, you know, I shall not
be to blame."




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Behold Lady Jane Granville reinstated in her fortune, occupying a fine
house in a fashionable situation, with suitable equipage and establishment!
carriages rolling to her door; tickets crowding her servants' hands;
an influx, an affluence of friends, and congratulations such as quite
astonished Caroline.

"Where were these people all the time she lived in Clarges-street?" thought
she.

Lady Jane, though she knew from experience the emptiness and insincerity
of such demonstrations of regard, was, nevertheless, habitually pleased by
them, and proud to be in a situation where numbers found it worth while
to pay her attentions. But notwithstanding her _foibles_, she was not a
mere fashionable friend. She was warm in her affection for Caroline. The
_producing_ her young friend in the great London world was her prime
object.

The pretensions of individuals are often cruelly mortified when they come
to encounter the vast competition of a capital city. As King James said to
the country-gentleman at court, "The little vessels, that made a figure on
the lake, appear insignificant on the ocean!"

Happily for Caroline, she had not formed high expectations of pleasure, any
hope of producing _effect_, or even _sensation_, upon her first appearance
in the fashionable world. As she said in her letters to her friends at
home, nothing could be more dull or tiresome than her first experience of
a young lady's introduction into life; nothing, as she assured Rosamond,
could be less like the reality than the delightful representations in
novels, where every day produces new scenes, new adventures, and new
characters. She was ashamed to write such stupid letters from London; but
unless she were to have recourse to invention, she literally had not any
thing entertaining to tell. She would, if Rosamond was in despair, invent
a few conquests; and like great historians, put in some fine speeches
supposed to have been spoken by celebrated characters.

In reality, Caroline's beauty had not passed so completely unobserved as
her modesty and inexperience imagined. She did not know the signs of the
times. On her first entrance into a public room eyes turned upon her--the
eyes of mothers with apprehension, of daughters with envy. Some gentlemen
looked with admiration, others with curiosity.

"A new face! Who is she?"

"A relation of Lady Jane Granville."

"What has she?"

"I don't know--nothing, I believe."

"Nothing, certainly--a daughter of the Percy who lost his fortune."

All apprehensions ceased on the part of the ladies, and generally all
admiration on the part of the gentlemen. Opera-glasses turned another way.
Pity succeeding to envy, a few charitably disposed added, "Ah! poor thing!
unprovided for--What a pity!"

"Do you dance to-night?"

"Does our quadrille come next?"

Some gentleman, an abstract admirer of beauty, perhaps, asked the honour
of her hand--to dance; but there the abstraction generally ended. A few,
indeed, went farther, and swore that she was a fine girl, prophesied that
she would _take_, and declared they would be d----d if they would not
_think_ of her, if they could afford it.

From their prophecies or their oaths nothing ensued, and even the
civilities and compliments she received from Lady Jane's particular friends
and acquaintance, though in a more polite style, were equally unmeaning and
unproductive. Days passed without leaving a trace behind.

Unluckily for Caroline, her brother Alfred was about this time obliged to
leave town. He was summoned to the country by Dr. Leicester. Dr. Percy was
so continually employed, that she could scarcely have a few minutes in a
week of his company, now that Lady Jane's health no longer required his
professional attendance. Caroline, who had always been used to domestic
society and conversation, was thus compelled to live completely in public,
without the pleasures of home, and without the amusement young people
generally enjoy in company, when they are with those of their own age to
whom they can communicate their thoughts. Lady Jane Granville was so much
afraid of Caroline's not appearing fashionable, that she continually
cautioned her against expressing her natural feelings at the sight of
any thing new and surprising, or at the perception of the tiresome or
ridiculous. Her ladyship would never permit her protge to ask the name
of any person in public places or at private parties--because not to know
certain people "argues yourself unknown."

"I'll tell you who every body is when we go home;" but when she was at
home, Lady Jane was generally too much tired to explain or to comprehend
the description of these nameless bodies; and even when her ladyship was
able to satisfy her curiosity, Caroline was apt to mistake afterwards the
titles and histories of the personages, and by the misnomers of which she
was guilty, provoked Lady Jane past endurance. Whether it was from want
of _natural genius_ in the scholar, or interest in the study, or from the
teacher's thus unphilosophically separating the name and the idea, it is
certain that Caroline made but slow progress in acquiring her fashionable
nomenclature. She was nearly in despair at her own want of memory, when
fortunately a new instructress fell in her way, who was delighted with
her ignorance, and desired nothing better than to tell her who was who;
in every private party and public place to point out the ridiculous or
notorious, and at the moment the figures were passing, whether they heard
or not, to relate anecdotes characteristic and illustrative: this new,
entertaining preceptress was Lady Frances Arlington. Her ladyship having
quarrelled with Miss Georgiana Falconer, hated to go out with Mrs.
Falconer, hated still more to stay at home with the old tapestry-working
duchess her aunt, and was delighted to have Lady Jane Granville to take her
every where. She cared little what any person thought of herself, much less
what they thought of Caroline: therefore, free from all the delicacies and
anxieties of Lady Jane's friendship and systems, Lady Frances, though from
different premises coming to the same conclusion, agreed that thinking of
Caroline's advantage was _stuff_! and that all she had to do was to amuse
herself in town. Caroline was the most convenient companion to go out with,
for she never crossed her ladyship about partners, or admirers, never vied
with her for admiration, or seemed to mind her _flirtations_; but quietly
suffering her to draw off all the fashionable beaux, whom Lady Jane
stationed upon duty, she let Lady Frances Arlington talk, or dance, to
her heart's content, and was satisfied often to sit still and be silent.
The variety of words and ideas, facts and remarks, which her lively and
practised companion poured into her mind, Caroline was left to class for
herself, to generalize, and to make her own conclusions. Now she had means
of amusement, she took pleasure in observing all that was going on, and
she knew something of the characters and motives of the actors in such
different scenes. As a spectator, she was particularly struck by the
eagerness of all the players, at their different games of love, interest,
or ambition; and in various sets of company, she was diverted by observing
how each thought themselves the whole world: here a party of young ladies
and gentlemen, practising, morning, noon, and night, steps for their
_quadrille_; and while they are dancing the _quadrille_, jockey gentlemen
ranged against the wall in the ball-room, talking of their horses;
grave heads and snuff-boxes in a corner settling the fate of Europe,
proving that, they were, are, or ought to be, behind the scenes; at the
card-tables, sharpened faces seeing nothing in the universe but their
cards; and at the piano-forte a set of signers and signoras, and ladies
of quality, mingled together, full of duets, solos, overtures, cavatinas,
expression, execution, and thorough bass--mothers in agonies, daughters
pressed or pressing forward--some young and trembling with shame--more,
though young, yet confident of applause--others, and these the saddest
among the gay, veteran female exhibitors, tired to death, yet forced to
continue the unfruitful glories. In one grand party, silence and state; in
another group, rival matrons chasing round the room the heir presumptive
to a dukedom, or wedging their daughters closer and closer to that
door-way through which Lord William * * * * * must pass. Here a poet
acting enthusiasm with a _chapeau bras_--there another dying of ennui to
admiration; here a wit cutting and slashing right or wrong; there a man
of judgment standing by, silent as the grave--all for notoriety. Whilst
others of high rank, birth, or wealth, without effort or merit, secure of
distinction, looked down with sober contempt upon the poor stragglers and
wranglers for fame.

Caroline had as yet seen but few of the literary candidates for celebrity;
only those privileged few, who, combining the pretensions of rank and
talent, had a natural right to be in certain circles; or those who, uniting
superior address to superior abilities, had risen or forced their way into
fine company. Added to these were two or three, who were invited to parties
as being the wonder and show of the season--persons whom the pride of rank
found it gratifying to have at command, and who afforded to them a most
happy relief from the dulness of their habitual existence. Caroline, though
pitying the exhibitors, whenever she met any of this description, had great
curiosity, to see more of literary society; but Lady Jane systematically
hung back on this point, and evaded her promises.

"Yes, my dear, I did promise to take you to Lady Angelica Headingham's,
and Lady Spilsbury's, but there's time enough--not yet--not till I have
established you in a higher society: not for your advantage to get among
the blue-stockings--the blue rubs off--and the least shade might ruin you
with some people. If you were married, I should introduce you to that set
with pleasure, for they entertain me vastly, and it is a great privation to
me this winter--a long fast; but even this abstinence from wit I can endure
for your sake, my dear Caroline--you are my first object. If you would
take the _bel esprit_ line decidedly--Talents you have, but not courage
sufficient; and even if you had, you are scarce old enough: with your
beauty and grace, you have a better chance in the circle you are in, my
dear."

But Lady Frances Arlington, who thought only of her own chance of
amusement, seconded Caroline's wish to see the literary set. Nothing could
be more stupid, her ladyship said, than running round always in the same
circle; for her part, she loved to see clever odd people, and though her
aunt-duchess would not let her go to Lady Spilsbury's, yet Lady Frances
was sure that, with Lady Jane Granville for her chaperon, she could get a
passport for Lady Angelica Headingham's, "because Lady Angelica is a sort
of cousin, I can't tell you how many times removed, but just as many as
will serve my present purpose--a connexion quite near enough to prove her
fashionable, and respectable, and all that: so, my dear Lady Jane--I'll ask
leave," concluded Lady Frances, "and we will go next conversazione day."

No--Lady Jane was firm to what she believed to be for Caroline's interest,
and she refused to take her into _that set_, and therefore declined the
honour of chaperoning her ladyship to Lady Angelica Headingham's.

"Oh! my dear Lady Jane, you couldn't, you wouldn't be so cruel! When I am
dying with impatience to see my cousin make herself ridiculous, as I hear
she does more and more every day with that Baron Wilhelmberg--Wilhelmberg,
I said, not Altenberg--Miss Caroline Percy need not have turned her head
so quickly. Lady Angelica's man is a German, and yours was a Pole, or
Prussian, was not he?--Do you know, the ugliest man I ever saw in my life,
and the handsomest, were both Poles--but they are all well-bred."

"But about Lady Angelica's German baron?" interrupted Lady Jane.

"Yes, what sort of a person is he?" said Caroline.

As unlike your Count Altenberg as possible--an oddish looking
genius--oldish, too--like one's idea of an alchymist, or a professor, or a
conjuror--like any thing rather than a man of fashion; but, nevertheless,
since he has got into fashion, the ladies have all found out that he is
very like a Roman emperor--and so he is--like _any_ head on an old coin."

"But how comes there to be such a value set on this head?--How came he into
fashion?" said Lady Jane.

"Is it possible you don't know? Oh! it was when you were out of the world
he first made the great noise--by dreaming--yes, dreaming--dreaming
himself, and making every body else dream as he pleases; he sported last
season a new theory of dreaming--joins practice to theory, too--very
extraordinary--interprets all your dreams to your satisfaction, they
say--and, quite on philosophical principles, can make you dream whatever he
pleases. True, upon my veracity."

"Did your ladyship ever try his skill?" said Lady Jane.

"Not I; for the duchess would not hear of him--but I long the more to know
what he could make me dream. He certainly is very clever, for he was asked
last winter everywhere. All the world ran mad--Lady Spilsbury, and my wise
cousin, I understand, came to pulling wigs for him. Angelica conquered
at last; you know Angelica was always a little bit of a coquette--not a
_little_ bit neither. At first, to be sure, she thought no more of love
for the German emperor than I do this minute; but he knew how to coquet
also--Who would have thought it?--So there were notes, and verses, and
dreams, and interpretations, and I can't tell you what. But, so far, the
man is no charlatan--he has made Lady Angelica dream the very dream he
chose--the strangest, too, imaginable--that she is in love with him. And
the interpretation is, that she will take him 'for better for worse.'"

"That is your own interpretation, is not it, Lady Frances?" said Caroline.

"Is it possible there is any truth in it?" said Lady Jane.

"All true, positively, I hear. And of all things, I should like to see Lady
Angelica and the baron face to face--tte--tte--or profile by profile, in
the true Roman emperor and empress medal style."

"So should I, I confess," said Lady Jane, smiling.

"The best or the worst of it is," continued Lady Frances, "that, after all,
this baron bold is, I've a notion, no better than an adventurer: for I
heard a little bird sing, that a certain ambassador hinted confidentially,
that the Baron de Wilhelmberg would find it difficult to prove his sixteen
quarterings. But now, upon both your honours, promise me you'll never
mention this--never give the least confidential hint of it to man, woman,
or child; because it might get round, spoil our sport, and never might I
have the dear delight of drawing the caricature."

"_Now_ your ladyship is not serious, I am sure," said Caroline.

"Never more serious--never so serious in my life; and, I assure you," cried
Lady Frances, speaking very earnestly and anxiously, "if you give the least
hint, I will never forgive you while I live; for I have set my heart on
doing the caricature."

"Impossible that, for the mere pleasure of drawing a caricature, you would
let your own cousin expose herself with an adventurer!" said Caroline.

"La! Lady Angelica is only my cousin a hundred removes. I can't help her
being ridiculous: every body, I dare say, has ridiculous cousins--and laugh
one must. If one were forbidden to laugh at one's relatives, it would be
sad indeed for those who have extensive connexions. Well, Lady Jane, I am
glad to see that _you_ don't pique yourself on being too good to laugh: so
I may depend on you. Our party for Lady Angelica's is fixed for Monday."

No--Lady Jane had, it is certain, some curiosity and some desire to laugh
at her neighbour's expense. So far, Lady Frances had, with address,
touched her foible for her purpose; but Lady Jane's affection for Caroline
strengthened her against the temptation. She was persuaded that it would be
a disadvantage to her to go to this conversazione. She would not upon any
account have Miss Percy be seen in the blue-stocking set at present--she
had her reasons. To this resolution her ladyship adhered, though Lady
Frances Arlington, pertinacious to accomplish any purpose she took into her
fancy, returned morning after morning to the charge. Sometimes she would
come with intelligence from her fetcher and carrier of news, as she called
him, Captain Nuttall.

One day, with a very dejected countenance, her ladyship came in saying,
"It's off--it's all off! Nuttall thinks it will never be a match."

The next day, in high spirits, she brought word, "It's on--it's on
again! Nuttall thinks it will certainly be a match--and Angelica is more
delightfully ridiculous than ever! Now, my dear Lady Jane, Tuesday?--next
week?--the week afterwards? In short, my dearest Lady Jane, once for all,
will you ever take me to her conversazione?"

"Never, my dear Lady Frances, till Miss Caroline Percy is married," said
Lady Jane: "I have my own reasons."

"Then I wish Miss Caroline Percy were to be married to-morrow--I have my
own reasons. But, after all, tell me, is there any, the least chance of
Miss Percy's being married?"

"Not the least chance," said Caroline.

"That is her own fault," said Lady Jane, looking mortified and displeased.

"That cannot be said of me, there's one comfort," cried Lady Frances. "If
I'm not married, 'tis not my fault; but my papa's, who, to _make an eldest
son_, left me only a poor 5000_l._ portion. What a shame to rob daughters
for sons, as the grandees do! I wish it had pleased Heaven to have made me
the daughter of an honest merchant, who never thinks of this impertinence:
then with my plum or plums, I might have chosen the first spend-thrift lord
in the land, or, may be, I might have been blessed with an offer from that
paragon of perfection, Lord William ----. Do you know what made him such
a paragon of perfection? His elder brother's falling sick, and being like
to die. Now, if the brother should recover, adieu to my Lord William's
perfections."

"Not in the opinion of all," said Lady Jane. "Lord William was a favourite
of mine, and I saw his merit long ago, and shall see it, whether his elder
brother die or recover."

"At all events," continued Lady Frances, "he will be a paragon, you will
see, only till he is married, and then--

  'How shall I your true love know
  From any other man?'

"By-the-bye, the other day, Lord William, in flying from the chase of
matrons, in his fright (he always looks like a frightened hare, poor
creature!) took refuge between you two ladies. Seriously, Lady Jane, do you
know I think you _manage_ vastly well for your protge--you are not so
_broad_ as Mrs. Falconer."

"_Broad!_ I beg your ladyship's pardon for repeating your word," cried Lady
Jane, looking quite angry, and feeling too angry to parry, as she usually
did, with wit: "I really don't understand your ladyship."

"Then I must wish your ladyship a good morning, for I've no time or talents
for explanation," said Lady Frances, running off, delighted to have
produced a sensation.

Lady Jane rang for her carriage, and made no observations on what had
passed. But in the evening she declared that she would not take Lady
Frances Arlington out with her any more, that her ladyship's spirits were
too much for her. "Besides, my dear Caroline, when she is with you, I never
hear you speak a word--you leave it entirely to her ladyship. After all,
she is, if you observe, a perfectly selfish creature."

Lady Jane recollected various instances of this.

"She merely makes a tool of me--my carriage, my servants, my time, myself,
always to be at her service, whenever the aunt-duchess cannot, or will not,
do her ladyship's behests. For the slightest errand she could devise, she
would send me to the antipodes; bid me fetch her a toothpick from the
farthest inch of the city. Well! I could pardon all the trouble she gives
for her fancies, if she would take any trouble for others in return.
No--ask her to do the least thing for you, and she tells you, she'd be very
glad, but she does not know how; or, she would do it this minute, but that
she has not time; or, she would have remembered it certainly, but that she
forgot it."

Caroline admitted that Lady Frances was thoughtless and giddy, but she
hoped not incurably selfish, as Lady Jane now seemed to suppose.

"Pardon me, she is incurably selfish. Her childishness made me excuse her
for a great while: I fancied she was so giddy that she could not remember
any thing; but I find she never forgets any thing on which she has set her
own foolish head. Giddy! I can't bear people who are too giddy to think of
any body but themselves."

Caroline endeavoured to excuse her ladyship, by saying that, by all
accounts, she had been educated in a way that must make her selfish.
"Idolized, and spoiled, I think you told me she was?"

"True, very likely; let her mother, or her grandmother, settle that
account--I am not to blame, and I will not suffer for it. You know, if we
entered like your father into the question of education, we might go back
to Adam and Eve, and find nobody to blame but them. In the mean time, I
will not take Lady Frances Arlington out with me any more--on this point I
am determined; for, suppose I forgave her selfishness and childishness,
and _all that_, why should I be subject to her impertinence? She has been
suffered to say whatever comes into her head, and to think it wit. Now, as
far as I am concerned, I will teach her better."

Caroline, who always saw the best side of characters, pleaded her freedom
from art and dissimulation.

"My dear Caroline, she is not half so free from dissimulation as you are
from envy and jealousy. She is always in your way, and you never see it. I
can't bear to hear you defend her, when I know she would and does sacrifice
you at any time and at all times to her own amusement. But she shall not
stand in your light--for you are a generous, unsuspicious creature. Lady
Frances shall never go out with me again--and I have just thought of
an excellent way of settling that matter. I'll change my coach for a
vis--vis, which will carry only two."

This Lady Jane, quick and decided, immediately accomplished; she adhered
to her resolution, and never did take Lady Frances Arlington out with her
more.

Returning from a party this evening--a party where they met Lord William,
who had sat beside Caroline at supper--Lady Jane began to reproach her with
having been unusually reserved and silent.

Caroline said she was not conscious of this.

"I hope and trust I am not too broad," continued Lady Jane, with a very
proud and proper look; "but I own, I think there is as much indelicacy in
a young lady's hanging back too much as in her coming too forward. And
gentlemen are apt to over-rate their consequence as much, if they find you
are afraid to speak to them, as if you were to talk--like Miss Falconer
herself."

Caroline assented fully to the truth of this remark; assured Lady Jane
that she had not intentionally hung back or been reserved; that she had no
affectation of this sort. In a word, she promised to exert herself more in
conversation, since Lady Jane desired it.

"I do wish it, my dear: you don't _get on_--there's no _getting you on_.
You certainly do not talk enough to gentlemen when they sit beside you. It
will be observed."

"Then, ma'am, I hope it will be observed too," said Caroline, smiling,
"that the gentlemen do not talk to me."

"No matter--you should find something to say to them--you have plenty of
gold, but no ready change about you. Now, as Lord Chesterfield tells us,
you know, that will never do."

Caroline was perfectly sensible of this--she knew she was deficient in the
sort of conversation of the moment, requisite for fine company and public
places.

"But when I have nothing to say, is not it better for me to say nothing,
ma'am?"

"No, my dear--half the world are in that predicament; but would it mend our
condition to reduce our parties to quakers' silent meetings? My dear, you
must condescend to talk, without saying any thing--and you must bear to
hear and say the same words a hundred times over; and another thing, my
dear Caroline--I wish you could cure yourself of looking fatigued. You will
never be thought agreeable, unless you can endure, without showing that you
are tired, the most stupid people extant--"

Caroline smiled, and said she recollected her father's telling her that
"the Prince de Ligne, the most agreeable man of his day, declared that his
secret depended, not on his wit or talents for conversation, but on his
power of concealing the ennui he felt in stupid company."

"Well, my dear, _I_ tell you so, as well as the Prince de Ligne, and let me
see that you benefit by it to-morrow."

The next night they went to a large party at a very fine lady's. It was
dull, but Caroline did her best to look happy, and exerted herself to talk
to please Lady Jane, who, from her card-table, from time to time, looked
at her, nodded and smiled. When they got into their carriage, Lady Jane,
before she had well drawn up the glass, began to praise her for her
performance this evening. "Really, my dear, you got on very well to-night;
and I hear Miss Caroline Percy is very agreeable. And, shall I tell you who
told me so?--No; that would make you too vain. But I'll leave you to sleep
upon what has been said--to-morrow you shall hear more."

The next morning, Caroline had stolen away from visitors, and quietly in
her own room was endeavouring to proceed in her copy of the miniature for
Mr. Gresham, when Lady Jane came into her apartment, with a letter and its
cover in her hand. "A letter in which you, Caroline, are deeply concerned."

A sudden hope darted across Caroline's imagination and illuminated her
countenance. As suddenly it vanished, when she saw on the cover of the
letter, no foreign post-mark, no foreign hand--but a hand unknown to her.

"Deeply concerned! How can I--how--how am I concerned in this, ma'am?" she
asked--with difficulty commanding her voice to articulate the words.

"Only a proposal for you, my dear," said Lady Jane, smiling: "not a
proposal for which you need blush, as you'll see if you'll read."

But observing that Caroline was not at this moment capable of reading,
without seeming to notice the tremor of her hand, and that she was holding
the letter upside down before her eyes, Lady Jane, with kind politeness,
passed on to the picture at which her young friend had been at work, and
stooping to examine the miniature with her glass, made some observations on
the painting, and gave Caroline time to recover. Nor did her ladyship look
up till Caroline exclaimed, "John Clay!--English Clay!"

"Yes--Clay, of Clay-hall, as Mrs. Falconer would say. You see, my love, I
told you truly, it was no blushing matter. I am sorry I startled you by
my abruptness. _Surprises_ are generally ill-judged--and always ill-bred.
Acquit me, I beseech you, of all but thoughtlessness," said Lady Jane,
sitting down by Caroline, and kindly taking her hand: "I hope you know I am
not Mrs. Falconer."

"I do, indeed," said Caroline, pressing her hand: "I feel all your
kindness, all your politeness."

"Of course, I knew that a proposal from Clay, of Clay-hall, would be to
you--just what it is to me," said Lady Jane. "I hope you cannot apprehend
that, for the sake of his seven or ten thousand, whatever he has per annum,
I should press such a match upon you, Caroline? No, no, you are worth
something much better."

"Thank you, my dear Lady Jane," cried Caroline, embracing her with warm
gratitude.

"Why, child, you could not think me so--merely mercenary. No; touch me upon
family, or fashion--any of my aristocratic prejudices as your father calls
them--and I might, perhaps, be a little peremptory. But John Clay is a man
just risen from the ranks, lately promoted from being a manufacturer's
son, to be a subaltern in good company, looking to rise another step by
purchase: no, no--a Percy could not accept such an offer--no loss of
fortune could justify such a _msalliance_. Such was my first feeling,
and I am sure yours, when you read at the bottom of this awkwardly folded
epistle, 'Your ladyship's most devoted, &c. John Clay'--"

"I believe I had no feeling, but pure surprise," said Caroline. "I scarcely
think Mr. Clay can be in earnest--for, to the best of my recollection, he
never spoke five words to me in his life!"

"English Clay, my dear. Has not he said every thing in one word?--I should
have been a little surprised, but that I have been seeing this good while
the _dessous des cartes_. Don't flatter yourself that love for you offers
Clay-hall--no; but hatred to Mrs. and Miss Falconer. There have been
quarrels upon quarrels, and poor Lady Trant in the middle of them, unable
to get out--and John Clay swearing he is not to be _taken in_--and Miss
Falconer buffeting Lady Trant with the willow he left on her brows--and
Mrs. Falconer smiling through the whole, and keeping the secret, which
every body knows: in short, my dear, 'tis not worth explaining to you--but
John Clay certainly hopes to complete the mortification of the Falconers by
giving himself to you. Besides, you are in fashion. Too much has been said
about him--I'm tired of him. Write your answer, my dear--or I'm to write,
am I? Well, give me some gilt paper--let us do the thing properly."
Properly the thing was done--the letter folded, not awkwardly, was sealed
and sent, Caroline delighted with Lady Jane, and Lady Jane delighted with
herself.

"So there's an end of that matter," said Lady Jane. "I saw how it would be
long ago; but I was glad you saw nothing of it, lest you should not have
let it come to a declaration. A refusal is always creditable; therefore, I
own, I should have been mortified, if the season had passed without your
having one proposal. But now you have nothing to be ashamed of--you've
killed your man--and I hope and trust I shall live to see you kill
another."

Caroline laughed, but said she was glad Lady Jane was not one of those who
count refusals as so many proofs of a young lady's merit; for her own part,
she acknowledged she was inclined to think that they were sometimes proofs
rather of coquetry and duplicity.

Lady Jane hesitated, and said she did not see this--she could not agree to
this.

The conversation went on till her ladyship and Caroline came to a complete
opposition of opinion on a principle, which, though it was only stated in
general, and in the abstract, her ladyship defended with an urgency, and
Caroline resisted with a steadiness, which are seldom shown about any
merely speculative point, unless there is some secret apprehension of their
being soon reduced to practice.

Lady Jane asserted that "a woman should always let an attachment come to
a declaration, before she permits a man to see her mind, even though
determined upon a refusal."

Caroline thought this would be using the man ill.

Lady Jane maintained that it would be using him much worse to refuse him
before he asked.

"But without refusing," Caroline said that "a gentleman might be led to
perceive when he was not likely to be accepted, and thus would be saved the
pain and humiliation of a rejected proposal."

"It was not a young lady's first business to think of that--her first duty
was to do what was right and proper for herself," Lady Jane said.

"Certainly; but the very question is, what is right and proper?"

"To give a distinct answer when a distinct question is asked, neither more
nor less," said Lady Jane. "Caroline, on these subjects you must trust to
one who knows the world, to tell you the opinion of the world. A woman is
safe, and cannot be blamed by friend or foe, if she adhere to the plain
rule, 'Stay till you are asked.' Till a gentleman thinks proper, in form,
to declare his attachment, nothing can be more indelicate than for a lady
to see it."

"Or, in some cases, more disingenuous, more cruel, than to pretend to be
blind to it."

"Cruel!--Cruel is a word of the last century, or the century before the
last. Cruelty is never heard of now, my dear--gentlemen's hearts don't
break in these our days; or suppose an odd heart should break, if the lady
is treating it according to rule, she is not to blame. Why did not the
proud tongue speak? Whatever happens, she is acquitted by the world."

"And by her own conscience? Surely not, if she deceive, and injure by
deception."

Lady Jane warmly repeated that she knew the world--that at her time of life
she ought to know the world--and that she was certain any line of conduct
but that which she had pointed out would expose a woman to the charge of
indelicacy, and perhaps of impertinence.

These were heavy charges, Caroline felt; but she thought that, when not
deserved, they could be borne better than self-reproaches for the want of
candour and truth.

Lady Jane observed, that, in the catalogue of female virtues, delicacy must
have the foremost place.

Caroline made a distinction between real delicacy and punctilio.

Lady Jane was inclined to call it a distinction without a difference. She,
however, more prudently said, that punctilio was necessary as the guard of
female delicacy.

Undoubtedly; but the greater virtue should not be sacrificed to the less.
Truth and sincerity, Caroline thought, must be classed among the highest
virtues of woman, as well as of man, and she hoped they were perfectly
consistent with the utmost feminine modesty. She asked whether, after all,
the plea of delicacy and punctilio was not sometimes used to conceal the
real motives? Perhaps ladies, in pretending to be too delicate to see a
gentleman's sentiments, were often, in fact, gratifying their own vanity,
and urging him to that declaration which was to complete the female
triumph.

Lady Jane grew angry: but, fearing lest Caroline should perceive that she
had some particular object in view--doubtful whether Caroline knew, or did
not know, her aim--and farther, having a secret hope, that, like other
young ladies who support fine sentiments about love and generosity, in
conversation, she might, when it came to the test, forget them, her
ladyship urged her opinion no farther.

Indeed, she candidly acknowledged, that much might be said on Caroline's
side of the question--and there the matter ended.




CHAPTER XXXV.


The object that Lady Jane had in view was to prevent Caroline from
discouraging, by premature candour, a passion which she saw rising in the
heart of a young nobleman.

Lord William ----,

  "Well pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit,"

had always preferred Lady Jane Granville's company to the society of those
who courted him more, or with less delicacy. Since Miss Caroline Percy's
arrival and appearance in town Lady Jane had, to do her justice, preserved
with his lordship exactly the same even tenor of conduct; whatever her
wishes might be, she had too much proper pride to compromise her own or her
young friend's dignity. Moreover, her ladyship had sense and knowledge
of character sufficient to perceive that such a sacrifice, or the least
appearance of a disposition to make it, would be not only degrading, but
vain: it would, she knew, for ever disgust and ruin them in the opinion
of a man, who had infinitely more penetration and feeling than those who
flattered him were aware that he possessed.

Lord William had excellent abilities, knowledge, and superior qualities of
every sort, all depressed by excessive timidity, to such a degree as to be
almost useless to himself and to others. Whenever he was, either for the
business or pleasure of life, to meet or mix with numbers, the whole man
was, as it were, snatched from himself. He was subject to that nightmare
of the soul, who seats herself upon the human breast, oppresses the heart,
palsies the will, and raises spectres of dismay, which the sufferer combats
in vain--that cruel enchantress, who hurls her spell even upon childhood;
and when she makes the youth her victim, pronounces, "Henceforward you
shall never appear in your natural character: innocent, you shall look
guilty; wise, you shall look silly; never shall you have the use of your
natural faculties. That which you wish to say, you shall not say--that
which you wish to do, you shall not do: you shall appear reserved when you
are enthusiastic, insensible when your heart sinks into melting tenderness.
In the presence of those you most wish to please, you shall be most
awkward; and when approached by her you love, you shall become lifeless as
a statue, under the irresistible spell of _mauvaise honte_."

Strange that France should give a name to that malady of the mind which
she never knew, or of which she knows less than any other nation upon the
surface of the civilized globe! Under the spell of _mauvaise honte_ poor
Lord William--laboured--fast bound--and bound the faster by all the efforts
made for his relief by the matrons and young damsels who crowded round
him continually. They were astonished that all their charms, and all the
encouragement they held out, failed to free this young nobleman from his
excessive timidity.

"What a pity! it was his only fault, they were sure."--"Ten thousand
pities he could not be made to speak--they were certain he had a vast
deal to say."--"And he could be so agreeable, they were confident, if he
would."--"Most extraordinary that a man of his rank and fortune, whom every
creature admired, should be so timid."

True; but the timid Lord William all the time esteemed himself more highly
than these ladies who affected to admire him. Mixed with his apparent
timidity there was a secret pride. Conscious of the difference between what
he was, and what he appeared to be, he was at once mortified and provoked,
and felt disdain and disgust for those who pretended to admire his outward
man, or who paid to his fortune that tribute which he thought due to his
merit. With some few, some very few, by whom he was appreciated, his
pride and his timidity were equally at ease, his reserve vanished in an
astonishing manner, and the man came out of the marble. Of this small
number in his confidence Lady Jane Granville was one. Even from his boyish
years she had discerned his worth and value, and he now distinguished her
by his grateful and constant regard. But Lady Jane Granville, though a
woman of considerable talents, could not be a judge of the whole of
his mind, or the extent of his powers: her talent was chiefly wit--her
knowledge, knowledge of the world--her mind cultivated but slightly, and
for embellishment--his deeply, extensively, and with large views. When he
became acquainted with Miss Caroline Percy, he soon found that to her all
this appeared, and by her was justly valued. His assiduity in cultivating
his friend Lady Jane's acquaintance increased; and his taste for the
conversation at her house became so great, that he was always the first,
and usually the last, at her parties. His morning visits were frequent and
long; he knew, by instinct, the hours when the two ladies were disengaged,
but not always so exactly the time when he ought to take leave. His ear
never informed him when Lady Jane's carriage came to the door, nor did
he always hear the servant announce its being in readiness. Her ladyship
might fidget as much as her politeness would permit without danger of its
being observed. His lordship never was wakened to the sense of its being
necessary to stir, till Miss Caroline Percy, by some strong indication,
such as putting away her drawing, and the books, or by plainly saying, "We
must go out now," made it manifest to him that he must depart. For this
Caroline was regularly reproved afterwards by Lady Jane--but she never
found that it gave Lord William any offence; nor did she for some time
observe that it caused him much uneasiness. He seemed to her to stay from
mere habitual absence of mind, and unwillingness to remove from a retreat
where he was safe and comfortable, to some place where he was liable to be
annoyed by his fair persecutors. That be liked her company and conversation
she did not affect to deny, nor could she doubt that he felt for her esteem
and regard--he expressed both, and he was not a man to express more than he
felt, or the truth of whose professions could be suspected; but she thought
that his regard for her, and for Lady Jane, were both of the same nature.
She thought him a _friend, not a lover_. This was not with Caroline a mere
commonplace phrase. She believed this to be true; and at the time she
believed it, she was right. But constantly in the society of an amiable,
sensible, and beautiful young woman, with a man of feeling, taste, and
understanding, whose heart is disengaged, the passage from friendship to
love is found so easy and rapid, as to be scarcely perceptible. And to
this, which generally happens in similar circumstances, Lord William was
peculiarly liable. For though, from the crowds who courted his attention,
it might seem that his liberty of choice was unlimited, yet, in fact, his
power of choosing was contracted and reduced to the few "whom choice and
passion both approve." Among these few his fastidious judgment, and his
apprehensions of domestic unhappiness, saw frequently, and sometimes too
justly, objection to the family connexion of the young lady: some want of
union in it--want of principle, or train of dissipation, which he dreaded,
or some folly he disliked; so that among the numbers of his own rank who
sought his alliance, it was not easy for him to satisfy himself, even as
to connexion--still more difficult to satisfy him as to love, "the modern
fair one's jest," or, what is worse, her affectation. His lordship was well
aware that among the numbers of young ladies who were ready at a moment's
warning to marry him, not one of these would love him for his own sake. Now
in common with Marmontel's Alcibiades, and with most men of rank who have
any superiority of character, Lord William had an anxious desire to be
loved for his own sake; for though, in the opinion of most people of the
world, and of some philosophers, the circumstances of rank and fortune form
a part of personal merit; yet as these are not indissolubly associated
with the individual, he rather preferred affection and esteem arising from
merit, of which he could not be deprived by any revolution of fate or turn
of fancy. If he were ever loved by Caroline Percy, it would be _for his own
sake_; and of the constancy of her affection, if once obtained, the whole
tenor of her character and conduct gave him the most secure pledge. Her
education, manners, talents, and beauty, were all such as would honour
and grace the highest rank of life. She had no fortune--but that was of
no consequence to him--he was likely to have a princely income: he had no
debts, he had at present all that satisfied his wishes, and that could
enable him to live married, as well as single, in a manner that suited his
station. His friends, eager to have him marry, and almost despairing of his
complying, in this point, with their wishes, left him entirely at liberty
in his choice. Reason and passion both determined on that choice, just
about the time when English Clay proposed for Caroline, and when the
conversation about declarations and refusals had passed between her and
Lady Jane. That conversation, instead of changing or weakening the opinions
Caroline then expressed, had confirmed her in her own sentiments, by
drawing out more fully the strength of the reasons, and the honourable
nature of the feelings, on which they were founded. Some slight
circumstances, such as she could scarcely state in words, occurred about
this time, which first gave her the idea, that Lord William ---- felt for
her more than esteem. The tender interest he showed one day when she had a
slight indisposition--the extreme alarm he expressed one night when there
occurred an embarrassment between their carriages at the door of the
opera-house, by which Lady Jane's vis--vis was nearly overturned--an alarm
much greater than Caroline thought the occasion required--was succeeded
by anger against his coachman, so much more violent and vehement than the
error or offence justified, or than his lordship had ever before been seen
to show; these things, which in a man of gallantry might mean nothing but
to show his politeness, from Lord William seemed indicative of something
more. Caroline began to see that the friend might become a lover, and now,
for the first time, questioned her own heart. She thought highly of Lord
William's abilities and character--she saw, as she had once said to Lady
Jane, "signs which convinced her that this volcano, covered with snow, and
often enveloped in clouds, would at some time burst forth in torrents of
fire." Little indication as Lord William now showed to common observers of
being or of becoming an orator, she perceived in him the soul of eloquence;
and she foresaw, that on some great occasion, from some great motive, he
would at once vanquish his timidity, and burst forth upon the senate. She
felt convinced that whether eloquent or silent, speaking or acting, in
public or private life, Lord William would in every circumstance of trial
fill and sustain the character of an upright, honourable, enlightened
English nobleman. Notwithstanding that she thought thus highly of him,
Count Altenberg, in her opinion, far surpassed him in the qualities
they both possessed, and excelled in many, in which Lord William was
deficient--in manner especially; and manner goes a great way in love,
even with people of the best understanding. Besides all the advantages of
manner, Count Altenberg had far superior talents, or at least far superior
habits of conversation--he was altogether as estimable and more agreeable
than his rival. He also had had the advantage of finding Caroline's mind
disengaged--he had cultivated her society in the country, where he had had
time and opportunity to develope his own character and hers--in one word,
he had made the first impression on her heart; and such an impression, once
made on a heart like hers, cannot be easily effaced. Though there seemed
little chance of his returning to claim his place in her affections--though
she had made the most laudable efforts to banish him from her recollection,
yet

  "En songeant qu'il faut qu'on l'oublie
  On s'en souvient;"

and now she found, that not only all others compared with him were
indifferent to her, but that any, whom she was forced to put in comparison
and competition with Count Altenberg, immediately sunk in her opinion.

Thus distinctly knowing her own mind, Caroline was however still in doubt
as to Lord William's, and afraid of mistaking the nature of his sentiments.
She well remembered Lady Jane's cautions; and though she was fully resolved
to spare by her candour the suspense and pain which coquetry might create
and prolong, yet it was necessary to be certain that she read aright, and
therefore to wait for something more decisive, by which to interpret his
meaning. Lady Jane wisely forbore all observations on the subject, and
never said or looked a word that could recall the memory of her former
debate. With the most scrupulous, almost haughty delicacy, and the most
consummate prudence, she left things to take their course, secure of what
the end would be.

One night Lady Jane and Caroline were at a party. When they arrived, they
descried Lord William, in the midst of a group of the fair and fashionable,
looking as if he was suffering martyrdom. His eye caught Caroline as she
passed, and his colour changed. The lady next him put up her glass, to look
for the cause of that change--but the glass was put down again, and no
apprehensions excited. By degrees, Lord William worked his way towards
Caroline--no, not towards Caroline, but to Lady Jane Granville. The company
near her were talking of a proposal, which a gentleman had lately made for
a celebrated beauty--his suit had been rejected. Some said that the lady
must have seen that he was attached to her, and that she had been to blame
in allowing him so long to pay her attentions, if she were determined to
refuse him at last; others defended the lady, saying that the gentleman had
never made a distinct declaration, and that therefore the lady was quite
correct in not appearing to know that his intentions meant any thing more
than was avowed. Lord William listened, perfectly silent, and with an
appearance of some anxiety. Lady Jane Granville supported warmly the same
side of the question which she had taken in a similar conversation with
Caroline.

Miss Percy was appealed to for her opinion, "Would it not be strange,
indeed, if a lady were to reject a gentleman before she was asked?"

Lord William with increasing anxiety listened, but dared not look at
Caroline, who with becoming modesty, but with firmness in what she believed
to be right, answered, "that if a woman saw that a gentleman loved her, and
felt that she could not return his attachment, she might, without any rude
or premature rejecting, simply by a certain ease of manner, which every man
of sense knows how to interpret, mark the difference between esteem and
tenderer sentiments; and might, by convincing him that there was no chance
of his obtaining any farther interest in her heart, prevent his ever having
the pain of a decided refusal."

The discussion ended here. Fresh company joined them; other subjects were
started. Lord William continued silent: he did not take any share in any
conversation, but was so absent and absorbed in his own thoughts, that
several times he was spoken to, without his being able to give a plausible
answer--then he stood covered with confusion--confusion increasing from the
sense that it was observed, and could not be conquered. The company moved
different ways, but his lordship continued fixed near Caroline. At last
the attention of all near him was happily diverted and drawn away from
him by the appearance of some new and distinguished person. He seized the
moment, and summoned courage sufficient to address some slight question
to Caroline: she answered him with an ease of manner which he felt to
be unfavourable to his wishes. The spell was upon him, and he could not
articulate--a dead silence might have ensued, but that Lady Jane happily
went on saying something about pine-apple ice. Lord William assented
implicitly, without knowing to what, and replied, "Just so--exactly so--"
to contradictory assertions; and if he had been asked at this instant
whether what he was eating was hot or cold, he could not have been able to
decide. Lady Jane composedly took a biscuit, and enjoyed the passing scene,
observing that this was the pleasantest party she had been at this season.

Mrs. Crabstock came up, and Lady Jane, with wit at will, kept the
pattern-lady in play by an opportunely-recollected tale of scandal; with
ears delighted, eyes riveted, stood Mrs. Crabstock, while Lord William,
again relieved from the fear of observation, breathed once more; and,
partly recovering his senses, through the mist that hung over him,
looked at Caroline, in hopes of drawing some encouraging omen from her
countenance. He had come to this party determined to say something that
should explain to her his sentiments. He thought he could speak to her
better in a crowd than alone. Now or never! said he to himself. With
desperate effort, and with an oppressed voice, he said--the very thing he
did not mean to say.

"Miss Percy, I never was so inclined in all my life to quarrel with ease
of manner in any body as in you." Then, correcting himself, and blushing
deeply, he added, "I don't mean that I don't admire your ease of manner
in general--but--in short, it is impossible, I think, that with your
penetration, you can be in any doubt as to my sentiments. If I thought--"

He stopped short: he felt as if his life hung upon a thread--as if the
first look, the first sound of her voice, the next word spoken, must decide
his fate. He longed, yet feared to see that look, and to hear that word.
"And I think it is impossible that, with your lordship's penetration, you
should mistake mine," said Caroline.

There was an ingenuous sweetness in her look and voice, a fear of giving
pain, yet a resolution to be sincere. Lord William felt and understood it
all. He saw there was no hope. Caroline heard from him a deep sigh. With
great and painful emotion, in the most calm voice she could command, but in
the kindest tone, she added, "For the sentiments of regard and esteem your
lordship has expressed for me, believe me, I am truly grateful."

Mrs. Crabstock moved towards them, and Caroline paused.

"Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith's concert to-morrow, my lord?" said Mrs.
Crabstock, who was now at liberty to ask questions; for even scandal will
not hold curiosity in check for ever.

"Are you to be at Lady Arrowsmith's, my lord, to-morrow night?" repeated
she, for her first attack was unheard.

"I do not know, indeed," said he, starting from his fit of absence.

Mrs. Crabstock persisted. "Were you at the opera last night, my lord?"

"I really, ma'am, do not recollect."

"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Crabstock.

And "Bless me!" cried Lady Jane Granville. "We are to be at the Duchess of
Greenwich's ball: Caroline, my dear--time for us to move. My lord, might I
trouble your lordship to ask if our carriage is to be had?"

Lord William, before she had completed the request, obeyed. As they went
down the staircase, Lady Jane laughing said, "I am afraid I shall be as
impertinently curious as Mrs. Crabstock--I was going to ask your lordship
whether you are engaged to-morrow, or whether you can come to us--to me?"

"_Unhappily_," the accent on the word showed it was no expression of
course. "Unhappily I cannot--I am engaged--I thank your ladyship."

Lady Jane looked back at Caroline, who was a little behind her.

"Though I could not recollect in time to tell Mrs. Crabstock where I was
last night, or where I am to be to-morrow," continued his lordship, making
an effort to smile, "yet I _can_ satisfy your ladyship--I shall be at
Tunbridge."

"Tunbridge!" cried Lady Jane, stopping short, and turning to Lord William,
as the light shone full on his face: "Tunbridge, at this season?"

"All seasons are alike to me--all seasons and their change," replied Lord
William, scarcely knowing what he answered--the powers of mind and body
engrossed in suppressing emotion.

They had now reached the bottom of the stairs--a shawl of Lady Jane's was
not to be found; and while the servants were searching for it, she and
Caroline, followed by Lord William, went into one of the supper-rooms,
which was open.

"To Tunbridge!" repeated Lady Jane. "No, my lord, you must not leave us."

"What is there to prevent me?" said Lord William, hastily, almost harshly;
for though at the time he felt her kindness, yet, irresistibly under the
power of his demon, he said the thing he did not mean: his voice and look
expressed the reverse of what his heart felt.

"Nay, if there is nothing to prevent your lordship," said Lady Jane,
walking away with dignity, "I have only to wish your lordship a good
journey."

"I would stay, if I could see any thing to keep me," said Lord William,
impelled, contrary to his better judgment, to appeal once more to
Caroline's countenance. Then cursed himself for his weakness.

Lady Jane, turning back, saw his lordship's look; and now, convinced that
Caroline was to blame for all, reproached herself for misinterpreting his
words and manner.

"Well, my lord," cried she, "you will not be in such haste to set out for
Tunbridge, I am sure, as to go before you hear from me in the morning.
Perhaps I may trouble your lordship with some commands."

He bowed, and said he should do himself the honour of waiting her
ladyship's commands. She passed on quickly towards the hall. Lord William
offered his arm to Caroline.

"I must speak to you, Miss Percy--and have but a moment--"

Caroline walked more slowly.

"Thank you, madam--yes, I _do_ thank you. Much pain you have given; but as
little as you could. Better now than later. Like yourself--and I thank you
for preserving the idea of excellence in my mind in all its integrity--in
all--I shall detain you but a moment--you are not impatient?"

"No," said Caroline, in a tremulous voice; yet for his sake, as well as
for the sake of her own consistency, trying to suppress emotion which she
thought he might misinterpret.

"Fear not--I shall not misinterpret--I know too well what love is. Speak
freely of my sentiments to Lady Jane, when I am gone--her friendship
deserves it from me."

He stopped speaking. "Stay," said Caroline. "It may give your noble mind
some ease to know that my heart was engaged before we ever met."

He was silent. It was the silence of deep feeling. They came within view
of the servants--he walked quietly to the carriage--assisted her into it,
pressed her hand--and said in a low voice, "Farewell--for ever."

The carriage-door was shut.

"Where to, my lady?" said the footman.

"The Duchess of Greenwich's, or home, Caroline?"

"Oh! home, if I may choose," said Caroline.

"Home!" said Lady Jane.

And the moment the glass was up, "Caroline, my dear, tell me this instant,
what is all this between you and Lord William?--Is it as I hope?--or, is it
as I fear?--speak."

Caroline could not--she was in tears.

"What have you done?--If you have said any thing irrevocable, and without
consulting me, I never, never will forgive you, Caroline. Speak, at all
events."

Caroline tried to obey her ladyship.

"What have you done?--What have you said?"

"I have said the truth--I have done, I hope, what I ought," said Caroline;
"but I have given great pain--"

Lady Jane now perceiving by her voice that she was in sorrow, spoke no more
in anger; but, checking herself, and changing her tone, said, "It is not
irremediable, my dear. Whatever pain you may have given, you know the power
to give pleasure is still in your own hands."

Caroline sighed--"Alas! no, madam, it is not."

"Why so, my love? He will not leave town in the morning without my
commands; and I am at your command. A note, a line, a word, will set all to
rights."

"But that word I _cannot_ say."

"Then let me say it for you. Trust your delicacy to me--I will be dignity
itself. Can you doubt it? Believe me, much as I wish to see you what and
where you ought to be in society, I would not--there it is, begging Lady
Frances Arlington's pardon, that Mrs. Falconer and I differ in character
essentially, and _de fond en comble_. I would never yield a point of real
delicacy; I would not descend the thousandth part of a degree from proper
dignity, to make you--any more than to make myself--a princess. And now,
without reserve, open your heart, and tell me what you wish to have done or
said."

"Nothing, my dear Lady Jane."

"Nothing? my dear Caroline."

"I have no more to say--I have said all I can say."

The carriage stopped at their own door.

"We are all in the dark," said Lady Jane: "when I have more light I shall
be able better to tell what we are about."

"Now, I can see as well as hear," continued she, as her woman met her with
lights. "Keppel, you may go to bed; we shall not want you to-night."

"Now, Caroline, take care: remember your countenance is open to me, if not
your heart."

"Both, both are open to you, my dear friend!" cried Caroline. "And Lord
William, who said you deserved it from him, desired me to speak as freely
for him as for myself."

"He's a noble creature! There's the difference between reserve of character
and reserve of manner--I always said so. Go on, my dear."

Caroline related every thing that had passed; and Lady Jane, when she had
finished, said, "A couple of children!--But a couple of charming children.
Now I, that have common sense, must set it all to rights, and turn _no_
prettily into _yes_."

"It cannot be done," said Caroline.

"Pardon me, solemn fair one, it can."

"Pardon me, my dear Lady Jane, it must not be done."

"Children should not say _must_," cried Lady Jane, in a playful tone; for
never did she feel in more delightful spirits than at this moment, when all
her hopes for Caroline, as she thought, were realized; "and to complete
'_the pleasing history_,' no obstacle remained," she said, "but the Chinese
mother-of-pearl curtain of etiquette to be withdrawn, by a dexterous,
delicate hand, from between Shuey-Ping-Sin and her lover." Lady Jane, late
as it was at night, took up a pen, to write a note to Lord William.

"What are you going to do, may I ask, my dear madam?" cried Caroline.

"My dear madam, I am going my own way--let me alone."

"But if you mean to write for me--"

"For you!--not at all--for myself. I beg to see Lord William in the
morning, to trouble him with my commands."

"But seriously, my dear Lady Jane, do not give him unnecessary pain--for my
mind is decided."

"So every young lady says--it is a ruled case--for the first three days."
Lady Jane wrote on as fast as she could.

"My dear Lady Jane," cried Caroline, stopping her ladyship's hand, "I am in
earnest."

"So, then," cried Lady Jane, impatiently, "you will not trust me--you will
not open your heart to me, Caroline?"

"I do--I have trusted you entirely, my dear friend. My heart I opened to
you long ago."

A dead pause--and blank consternation in Lady Jane's countenance.

"But surely since then it must have changed?"

"Not in the least."

"But it will change: let Lord William try to change it."

Caroline shook her head. "It will not--I cannot."

"And you won't do this, when I ask it as a favour for my friend, my
particular friend?"

"Excuse me, dear, kind Lady Jane; I know you wish only my happiness, but
this would make me unhappy. It is the only thing you could ask with which I
would not comply."

"Then I'll never ask any thing else while I live from you, Miss Percy,"
cried Lady Jane, rising and throwing her pen from her. "You are resolved
to throw your happiness from you--do so. Wish your happiness!--yes, I have
wished it anxiously--ardently! but now I have done: you are determined to
be perverse and philosophical. Good night to you."

Lady Jane snatched up her candle, and in haste retired. Caroline, sensible
that all her ladyship's anger at this moment arose from warm affection, was
the more sorry to have occasioned it, and to feel that she could not, by
yielding, allay it instantly.--A sleepless night.

Early in the morning, Keppel, half-dressed and not half awake, came, with
her ladyship's love, and begged to speak a word to Miss Percy.

"_Love!_" repeated Caroline, as she went to Lady Jane's apartment: "how
kind she is!"

"My dear, you have not slept, I see--nor I neither; but I am sure you have
forgiven my hastiness;" said Lady Jane, raising herself on her pillow.

Caroline kissed her affectionately.

"And let these tears, my dearest Caroline," continued Lady Jane, "be
converted into tears of joy: for my sake--for your whole family--for your
own sake, my sweet girl, be advised, and don't throw away your happiness
for life. Here's a note from Lord William--he waits my commands--that's
all. Let me only desire to see him."

"On my account? I cannot," said Caroline--the tears streaming down her
face, though she spoke calmly.

"Then it is your pride to refuse the man for whom every other young woman
is sighing."

"No, believe me that I do not act from pride: I feel none--I have no reason
to feel any."

"No reason to feel pride! Don't you know--yes, you know as well as I
do, that this is the man of men--the man on whom every mother's--every
daughter's eye is fixed--the first unmarried nobleman now in England--the
prize of prizes. The most excellent man, you allow, and universally allowed
to be the most agreeable."

"But if he be not so to me?" said Caroline.

"That can only be because--you are conscious of the cause, Caroline--it is
your own fault."

"And therefore I said, that I felt I had no reason to be proud," said
Caroline.

"Then have reason to be proud; conquer this weakness, and then you may have
cause to be proud. You pique yourself on being reasonable: is it reasonable
to leave your affections in the possession of a man, of whom, in all human
probability, you will never hear more?"

"Too probable," said Caroline.

"And will you, Caroline Percy, like Lady Angelica Headingham, leave your
heart at the mercy of a foreign _adventurer_?"

"Oh! stop, ma'am," cried Caroline, putting her hand before Lady Jane's
mouth: "don't say that word--any thing else I could bear. But if you knew
him--education, character, manners--no, you would not be so unjust."

"You know you told me you were sensible you ought not to indulge such a
weakness, Caroline?"

"I did--I am sensible of it--oh! you see I am; and my best--my very best
have I done to drive him from my memory; and never, till I was forced to
make this comparison, did I recollect--did I feel--Weak, I may be," said
Caroline, changing from great agitation to perfect decision; "but wicked
will not be: I will never marry one man, and love another. My own happiness
if I sacrifice, mine be the consequence; but will never injure the
happiness of another. Do not, madam, keep that noble heart, this excellent
Lord William, in suspense--What are your commands?"

"My commands!" cried Lady Jane, raising her voice, trembling with anger.
"Then this is your gratitude--this your generosity!"

"I cannot be generous--I must be just. I have concealed nothing from Lord
William--he knows that my heart was engaged before we met."

"And this your affection for all your friends--all who wish for your
happiness? You would sacrifice nothing--nothing--no, not the slightest
fancy, disgraceful fancy of your own, to please them, when you know how
ardently too they wish to see you happily married."

"To marry to please others, against my own inclination, against my own
conscience, must be weakness indeed--self-deception; for if my friends wish
my happiness, and I make myself miserable, how can that please them? Any
sacrifice I could make, except that of principle, I would; but that I never
will make, nor will my friends, nor do they, desire it--Forgive me, dear
Lady Jane."

"I never will forgive you," interrupted Lady Jane. "Ring!--yes, ring the
bell--and when rung, never expect my forgiveness."

It must be done, thought Caroline, sooner or later.

"My compliments, Keppel, to Lord William," said Lady Jane; "I have no
commands to trouble him with. Stay, I must find something--that parcel for
Mrs. Baggot, Tunbridge--I must write--I cannot write."

"With great difficulty, in the agitation of her mind and hand, Lady Jane
wrote a few lines, and holding the note up, looked at Caroline--a last
appeal--in vain.

"Take it, Keppel--I'm sorry Lord William's servant has been kept waiting,"
cried her ladyship, and suddenly closed the curtain. Caroline retired
softly, hoping that Lady Jane might sleep, and sleep off her anger; but
no--the morning passed--the day passed--and the sun went down upon her
wrath. At night she would not, she could not, go out any where. Caroline,
alone with her, endured a terrible tte--tte. Lady Jane never spoke.
Caroline tried all she could, by affectionate kindness of look and voice,
and by contrite gentleness, to soothe her perturbed spirit. Lady Jane's
anger admitted of no alleviation: her disappointment increased the more she
reflected, and the more she thought of what others would think, if they
could know it. And that they did not know, might never know it, (for Lady
Jane was too honourable to betray Lord William's secret,) was an additional
mortification. It was not till after ninety-six hours that Caroline
perceived in her ladyship any change for the better. The first favourable
symptom was her giving vent to her natural feelings in the following broken
sentences: "After all my pains! When I was just thinking of writing to your
father--when I might have carried you home in triumph, Lady William! A duke
in all human probability--a duchess--absolutely a duchess you might have
been! And such a well-informed--such an amiable man!--every thing your own
family could have wished--And Rosamond!--Ah! poor Rosamond--Rosamond, you
little know!--And nobody will ever know--no creature will ever be a bit
the wiser. If you would have let him even come to a declaration--properly,
decently to a declaration--let him attend you in public once or twice, your
declared admirer--what harm could it possibly have done him, you, or any
body? Then there would have been some credit, at least--and some comfort
to me. But now, at the end of the campaign, just where we were before! The
season over, under Lady Jane Granville's _chaperonage_, the beautiful Miss
Caroline Percy has received one proposal and a quarter!--No, while I live,
I will never forgive it."





End of Project Gutenberg's Tales and Novels, Vol. VII, by Maria Edgeworth

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOL. VII ***

This file should be named 8tal710.txt or 8tal710.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8tal711.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8tal710a.txt

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, and Distributed Proofreaders

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*

