Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “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 neverth
eless 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 wit
hout 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.