Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  It was observed at the levee, that the sovereign looked coldly upon the minister. Every courtier whispered that Lord Oldborough had been certainly much to blame. Disdainful of their opinions, Lord Oldborough was sensibly affected by the altered eye of his sovereign.

  “What! After all my services! — At the first change of fortune!”

  This sentiment swelled in his breast; but his countenance was rigidly calm, his demeanour towards the courtiers and towards his colleagues more than usually firm, if not haughty.

  After the levee, he demanded a private audience.

  Alone with the king, the habitual influence of this great minister’s superior genius operated. The cold manner was changed, or rather, it was changed involuntarily. From one “not used to the language of apology,” the frank avowal of a fault has a striking effect. Lord Oldborough took upon himself the whole blame of the disaster that had ensued, in consequence of his error, an error frequent in other ministers, in him, almost unprecedented.

  He was answered with a smile of royal raillery, that the peculiar family circumstances which had determined his lordship so rapidly to promote that officer, must, to all fathers of families and heads of houses, if not to statesmen and generals, be a sufficient and home apology.

  Considering the peculiar talent which his sovereign possessed, and in which he gloried, that of knowing the connexions and domestic affairs, not only of the nobility near his person, but of private individuals remote from his court, Lord Oldborough had little cause to be surprised that this secret transaction should be known to his majesty. Something of this his lordship, with all due respect, hinted in reply. At the termination of this audience, he was soothed by the condescending assurance, that whilst the circumstances of the late unfortunate reverse naturally created regret and mortification, no dissatisfaction with his ministerial conduct mixed with these feelings; on the contrary, he was assured that fear of the effect a disappointment might have on the mind of the public, in diminishing confidence in his lordship’s efforts for the good of the country, was the sentiment which had lowered the spirits and clouded the brow of majesty.

  His lordship returned thanks for the gracious demonstration of these sentiments — and, bowing respectfully, withdrew. In the faces and behaviour of the courtiers, as in a glass, he saw reflected the truth. They all pretended to be in the utmost consternation; and he heard of nothing but “apprehensions for the effect on the public mind,” and “fears for his lordship’s popularity.” His secretary, Mr. Temple, heard, indeed, more of this than could reach his lordship’s ear directly; for, even now, when they thought they foresaw his fall, few had sufficient courage to hazard the tone of condolence with Lord Oldborough, or to expose the face of hypocrisy to the severity of his penetrating eye. In secret, every means had been taken to propagate in the city, the knowledge of all the circumstances that were unfavourable to the minister, and to increase the dissatisfaction which any check in the success of our armies naturally produces. The tide of popularity, which had hitherto supported the minister, suddenly ebbed; and he fell, in public opinion, with astonishing rapidity. For the moment all was forgotten, but that he was the person who had promoted John Falconer to be a colonel, against whom the cry of the populace was raised with all the clamour of national indignation. The Greenwich faction knew how to take advantage of this disposition. It happened to be some festival, some holiday, when the common people, having nothing to do, are more disposed than at any other time to intoxication and disorder. The emissaries of designing partisans mixed with the populace, and a mob gathered round the minister’s carriage, as he was returning home late one day — the same carriage, and the same man, whom, but a few short weeks before, this populace had drawn with loud huzzas, and almost with tears of affection. Unmoved of mind, as he had been when he heard their huzzas, Lord Oldborough now listened to their execrations, till from abuse they began to proceed to outrage. Stones were thrown at his carriage. One of his servants narrowly escaped being struck. Lord Oldborough was alone — he threw open his carriage-door, and sprang out on the step.

  “Whose life is it you seek?” cried he, in a voice which obtained instant silence. “Lord Oldborough’s? Lord Oldborough stands before you. Take his life who dares — a life spent in your service. Strike! but strike openly. You are Englishmen, not assassins.”

  Then, turning to his servants, he added, in a calm voice, “Home — slowly. Not a man here will touch you. Keep your master in sight. If I fall, mark by what hand.”

  Then stepping down into the midst of the people, he crossed the street to the flagged pathway, the crowd opening to make way for him. He walked on with a deliberate firm step; the mob moving along with him, sometimes huzzaing, sometimes uttering horrid execrations in horrid tones. Lord Oldborough, preserving absolute silence, still walked on, never turned his head, or quickened his pace, till he reached his own house. Then, facing the mob, as he stood waiting till the door should be opened, the people, struck with his intrepidity, with one accord joined in a shout of applause.

  The next instant, and before the door was opened, they cried, “Hat off! — Hat off!”

  Lord Oldborough’s hat never stirred. A man took up a stone.

  “Mark that man!” cried Lord Oldborough.

  The door opened. “Return to your homes, my countrymen, and bless God that you have not any of you to answer this night for murder!”

  Then entering his house, he took off his hat, and gave it to one of his attendants. His secretary, Temple, had run down stairs to meet him, inquiring what was the cause of the disturbance.

  “Only,” said Lord Oldborough, “that I have served the people, but never bent to them.”

  “Curse them! they are not worth serving. Oh! I thought they’d have taken my lord’s life that minute,” cried his faithful servant Rodney. “The sight left my eyes. I thought he was gone for ever. Thank God! he’s safe. Take off my lord’s coat — I can’t — for the soul of me. Curse those ungrateful people!”

  “Do not curse them, my good Rodney,” said Lord Oldborough, smiling. “Poor people, they are not ungrateful, only mistaken. Those who mislead them are to blame. The English are a fine people. Even an English mob, you see, is generous, and just, as far as it knows.”

  Lord Oldborough was sound asleep this night, before any other individual in the house had finished talking of the dangers he had escaped.

  The civil and military courage shown by the minister in the sudden attack upon his character and person were such as to raise him again at once to his former height in public esteem. His enemies were obliged to affect admiration. The Greenwich party, foiled in this attempt, now disavowed it. News of a victory effaced the memory of the late disappointment. Stocks rose — addresses for a change of ministry were quashed — addresses of thanks and congratulation poured in — Lord Oldborough gave them to Mr. Temple to answer, and kept the strength of his attention fixed upon the great objects which were essential to the nation and the sovereign he served.

  Mr. Falconer saw that the storm had blown over, the darkness was past — Lord Oldborough, firm and superior, stood bright in power, and before him the commissioner bent more obsequious, more anxious than ever. Anxious he might well be — unhappy father! the life, perhaps, of one of his sons, his honour, certainly, at stake — the fortune of another — his existence ruined! And what hopes of propitiating him, who had so suffered by the favour he had already shown, who had been betrayed by one of the family and disgraced by another. The commissioner’s only hope was in the recollection of the words, “I pity you from my soul, sir,” which burst from Lord Oldborough even at the moment when he had most reason to be enraged against Colonel Falconer. Following up this idea, and working on the generous compassion, of which, but for this indication, he should not have supposed the stern Lord Oldborough to be susceptible, the commissioner appeared before him every day the image of a broken-hearted father. In silence Lord Oldborough from time to time looked at him; and by these looks, more than by all t
he promises of all the great men who had ever spoken to him, Mr. Falconer was reassured; and, as he told Mrs. Falconer, who at this time was in dreadful anxiety, he felt certain that Lord Oldborough would not punish him for the faults of his sons — he was satisfied that his place and his pension would not be taken from him — and that, at least in fortune, they should not be utterly ruined. In this security the commissioner showed rather more than his customary degree of strength of mind, and more knowledge of Lord Oldborough’s character than he had upon most other occasions evinced.

  Things were in this state, when, one morning, after the minister had given orders that no one should be admitted, as he was dictating some public papers of consequence to Mr. Temple, the Duke of Greenwich was announced. His grace sent in a note to signify that he waited upon Lord Oldborough by order of his majesty; and that, if this hour were not convenient, he begged to have the hour named at which his grace could be admitted. His grace was admitted instantly. Mr. Temple retired — for it was evident this was to be a secret conference. His grace of Greenwich entered with the most important solemnity — infinitely more ceremonious than usual; he was at last seated, and, after heavy and audible sighs, still hesitated to open his business. Through the affected gloom and dejection of his countenance Lord Oldborough saw a malicious pleasure lurking, whilst, in a studied exordium, he spoke of the infinite reluctance with which he had been compelled, by his majesty’s express orders, to wait upon his lordship on a business the most painful to his feelings. As being a public colleague — as a near and dear connexion — as a friend in long habits of intimacy with his lordship, he had prayed his majesty to be excused; but it was his majesty’s pleasure: he had only now to beg his lordship to believe that it was with infinite concern, &c. Lord Oldborough, though suffering under this circumlocution, never condescended to show any symptom of impatience; but allowing his grace to run the changes on the words and forms of apology, when these were exhausted, his lordship simply said, that “his majesty’s pleasure of course precluded all necessity for apology.”

  His grace was vexed to find Lord Oldborough still unmoved — he was sure this tranquillity could not long endure: he continued, “A sad business, my lord — a terrible discovery — I really can hardly bring myself to speak—”

  Lord Oldborough gave his grace no assistance.

  “My private regard,” he repeated.

  A smile of contempt on Lord Oldborough’s countenance.

  “Your lordship’s hitherto invulnerable public integrity—”

  A glance of indignation from Lord Oldborough.

  “Hitherto invulnerable! — your grace will explain.”

  “Let these — these fatal notes — letters — unfortunately got into the hands of a leading, impracticable member of opposition, and by him laid — Would that I had been apprised, or could have conceived it possible, time enough to prevent that step; but it was done before I had the slightest intimation — laid before his majesty—”

  Lord Oldborough calmly received the letters from his grace.

  “My own handwriting, and private seal, I perceive.”

  The duke sighed — and whilst Lord Oldborough drew out, opened, and read the first letter in the parcel, his grace went on—”This affair has thrown us all into the greatest consternation. It is to be brought before parliament immediately — unless a resignation should take place — which we should all deplore. The impudence, the inveteracy of that fellow, is astonishing — no silencing him. We might hush up the affair if his majesty had not been apprised; but where the interest of the service is concerned, his majesty is warm.”

  “His majesty!” cried Lord Oldborough: “His majesty could not, I trust, for a moment imagine these letters to be I mine?”

  “But for the hand and seal which I understood your lordship to acknowledge, I am persuaded his majesty could not have believed it.”

  “Believed! My king! did he believe it?” cried Lord Oldborough. His agitation was for a moment excessive, uncontrollable. “No! that I will never credit, till I have it from his own lips.” Then commanding himself, “Your grace will have the goodness to leave these letters with me till to-morrow.”

  His grace, with infinite politeness and regret, was under the necessity of refusing this request. His orders were only to show the letters to his lordship, and then to restore them to the hands of the member of opposition who had laid them before his majesty.

  Lord Oldborough took off the cover of one of the letters, on which was merely the address and seal. The address was written also at the bottom of the letter enclosed, therefore the cover could not be of the least importance. The duke could not, Lord Oldborough said, refuse to leave this with him.

  To this his grace agreed — protesting that he was far from wishing to make difficulties. If there were any thing else he could do — any thing his lordship would wish to have privately insinuated or publicly said —

  His lordship, with proud thanks, assured the duke he did not wish to have any thing privately insinuated; and whatever it was necessary to say or do publicly, he should do himself, or give orders to have done. His lordship entered into no farther explanation. The duke at last was obliged to take his leave, earnestly hoping and trusting that this business would terminate to his lordship’s entire satisfaction.

  No sooner was the duke gone than Lord Oldborough rang for his carriage.

  “Immediately — and Mr. Temple, instantly.”

  Whilst his carriage was coming to the door, in the shortest manner possible Lord Oldborough stated the facts to his secretary, that letters had been forged in his lordship’s name, promising to certain persons promotion in the army — and navy — gratification — and pensions. Some were addressed to persons who had actually obtained promotion, shortly after the time of these letters; others contained reproaches for having been ill-used. Even from the rapid glance Lord Oldborough had taken of these papers, he had retained the names of several of the persons to whom they were addressed — and the nature of the promotion obtained. They were persons who could have had no claim upon an honest minister. His lordship left a list of them with Mr. Temple — also the cover of the letter, on which was a specimen of the forged writing and the private seal.

  “I am going to the king. In my absence, Mr. Temple, think for me — I know you feel for me. The object is to discover the authors of this forgery.”

  “My lord, may I consult with Mr. Alfred Percy?”

  “Yes — with no other person.”

  It was not Lord Oldborough’s day for doing business with the king. He was late — the king was going out to ride. His majesty received the minister as usual; but notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty’s words and manner, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s penetration, that there was a coldness and formality in the king’s countenance.

  “I beg I may not detain your majesty — I see I am late,” said Lord Oldborough.

  “Is the business urgent, my lord?”

  “No, sir; for it concerns principally myself: it can, therefore, wait your majesty’s leisure at any hour your majesty may appoint.”

  The king dismounted instantly.

  “This moment, my lord, I am at leisure for any business that concerns your lordship.”

  The king returned to the palace — Lord Oldborough followed, and all the spectators on foot and horseback were left full of curiosity.

  Notwithstanding the condescension of his majesty’s words and manner, and the polite promptitude to attend to any business that concerned his lordship, it was evident to Lord Oldborough’s penetration that there was an unusual coldness and formality in the king’s countenance and deportment, unlike the graciousness of his reception when satisfied and pleased. As soon as the business of the day had been gone through, Lord Oldborough said he must now beg his majesty’s attention on a subject which principally concerned himself. The king looked as one prepared to hear, but determined to say as little as possible.

  Lord Oldborough placed himself so as to
give the king the advantage of the light, which he did not fear to have full on his own countenance.

  “Sir, certain letters, signed with my name, and sealed with my seal, have, I am informed, been laid before your majesty.”

  “Your lordship has been rightly informed.”

  “I trust — I hope that your majesty—”

  At the firm assertion, in the tone with which Lord Oldborough pronounced, I trust — his majesty’s eye changed — and moved away from Lord Oldborough’s, when he, with respectful interrogation of tone, added, “I hope your majesty could not believe those letters to be mine.”

  “Frankly, my lord,” said the king, “the assertions, the insinuations of no man, or set of men, of any rank or weight in my dominions, could by any imaginable means have induced me to conceive it possible that such letters had been written by your lordship. Not for one moment could my belief have been compelled by any evidence less strong than your lordship’s handwriting and seal. I own, I thought I knew your lordship’s seal and writing; but I now see that I have been deceived, and I rejoice to see it.”

  “I thank your majesty. I cannot feel surprise that a forgery and a counterfeit which, at first view, compelled my own belief of their being genuine, should, for a moment, have deceived you, sir; but, I own, I had flattered myself that my sovereign knew my heart and character, yet better than my seal and signature.”