Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

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 ru
stic 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.”