Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “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 t
own, 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 n
ow 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.