Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Alfred, at this instant, recollected the whisper which he had once heard at chapel, and he added, “Not of late, my lord.”

  “There,” said Lord Oldborough, putting a letter into Alfred’s hands—”there is the sum of what I have heard.”

  The letter was from the Duke of Greenwich, informing Lord Oldborough that an unfortunate discovery had been made of an affair between the Marchioness of Twickenham and a certain Captain Bellamy, which rendered an immediate separation necessary.

  “So!” thought Alfred, “my brother Godfrey had a fine escape of this fair lady!”

  “I have seen her once since I received that letter, and I never will see her again,” said Lord Oldborough: “that’s past — all that concerns her is past and irremediable. Now as to the future, and to what concerns myself. I have been informed — how truly, I cannot say — that some time ago a rumour, a suspicion of this intrigue was whispered in what they call the fashionable world.”

  “I believe that your lordship has been truly informed,” said Alfred; and he then mentioned the whisper he had heard at the chapel.

  “Ha! — Farther, it has been asserted to me, that a hint was given to the Marquis of Twickenham of the danger of suffering that — what is the man’s name? — Bellamy, to be so near his wife; and that the hint was disregarded.”

  “The marquis did very weakly or very wickedly,” said Alfred.

  “All wickedness is weakness, sir, you know: but to our point. I have been assured that the actual discovery of the intrigue was made to the marquis some months previously to the birth of his child — and that he forbore to take any notice of this, lest it might affect the legitimacy of that child. After the birth of the infant — a boy — subsequent indiscretions on the part of the marchioness, the marquis would make it appear, gave rise to his first suspicions. Now, sir, these are the points, of which, as my friend, and as a professional man, I desire you to ascertain the truth. If the facts are as I have thus heard, I presume no divorce can be legally obtained.”

  “Certainly not, my lord.”

  “Then I will direct you instantly to the proper channels for information.”

  Whilst Lord Oldborough wrote directions, Alfred assured him he would fulfil his commission with all the discretion and celerity in his power.

  “The next step,” continued Lord Oldborough—”for, on such a subject, I wish to say all that is necessary at once, that it may be banished from my mind — your next step, supposing the facts to be ascertained, is to go with this letter — my answer to the Duke of Greenwich. See him — and see the marquis. In matters of consequence have nothing to do with secondary people — deal with the principals. Show in the first place, as a lawyer, that their divorce is unattainable — next, show the marquis that he destroys his son and heir by attempting it. The duke, I believe, would be glad of a pretext for dissolving the political connexion between me and the Greenwich family. He fears me, and he fears the world: he dares not abandon me without a pretence for the dissolution of friendship. He is a weak man, and never dares to act without a pretext; but show him that a divorce is not necessary for his purpose — a separation will do as well — Or without it, I am ready to break with him at council, in the House of Lords, on a hundred political points; and let him shield himself as he may from the reproach of desertion, by leaving the blame of quarrel on my impracticability, or on what he will, I care not — so that my family be saved from the ignominy of divorce.”

  As he sealed his letter, Lord Oldborough went on in abrupt sentences.

  “I never counted on a weak man’s friendship — I can do without his grace — Woman! Woman! The same — ever since the beginning of the world!”

  Then turning to Alfred to deliver the letter into his hand, “Your brother, Major Percy, sir — I think I recollect — He was better in the West Indies.”

  “I was just thinking so, my lord,” said Alfred.

  “Yes — better encounter the plague than a fool.”

  Lord Oldborough had never before distinctly adverted to his knowledge of his niece’s partiality for Godfrey, but his lordship now added, “Major Percy’s honourable conduct is not unknown: I trust honourable conduct never was, and never will be, lost upon me. — This to the Duke of Greenwich — and this to the marquis. — Since it was to be, I rejoice that this Captain Bellamy is the gallant. — Had it been your brother, sir — could there have been any love in the case — not, observe, that I believe in love, much less am I subject to the weakness of remorse — but a twinge might have seized my mind — I might possibly have been told that the marchioness was married against her inclination. — But I am at ease on that point — my judgment of her was right. — You will let me know, in one word, the result of your negotiation without entering into particulars — divorce, or no divorce, is all I wish to hear.”

  Alfred did not know all the circumstances of the Marchioness of Twickenham’s marriage, nor the peremptory manner in which it had been insisted upon by her uncle, otherwise he would have felt still greater surprise than that which he now felt, at the stern, unbending character of the man. Possessed as Lord Oldborough was by the opinion, that he had at the time judged and acted in the best manner possible, no after-events could make him doubt the justice of his own decision, or could at all shake him in his own estimation.

  Alfred soon brought his report. “In one word — no divorce, my lord.”

  “That’s well — I thank you, sir.”

  His lordship made no farther inquiries — not even whether there was to be a separation.

  Alfred was commissioned by the Duke of Greenwich to deliver a message, which, like the messages of the gods in Homer, he delivered verbatim, and without comment: “His grace of Greenwich trusts Lord Oldborough will believe, that, notwithstanding the unfortunate circumstances, which dissolved in some degree the family connexion, it was the farthest possible from his grace’s wish or thoughts to break with Lord Oldborough, as long as private feelings, and public principles, could be rendered by any means compatible.”

  Lord Oldborough smiled in scorn — and Alfred could scarcely command his countenance.

  Lord Oldborough prepared to give his grace the opportunity, which he knew he desired, of differing with him on principle: his lordship thought his favour and power were now sufficiently established to be able to do without the Duke of Greenwich, and his pride prompted him to show this to his grace and to the world. He carried it with a high hand for a short time; but even whilst he felt most secure, and when all seemed to bend and bow before his genius and his sway, many circumstances and many persons were combining to work the downfall of his power.

  One of the first slight circumstances which shook his favour, was a speech he had made to some gentleman, about the presentation of the deanery to Buckhurst Falconer. It had been supposed by many, who knew the court which Commissioner Falconer paid to Lord Oldborough, that it was through his lordship’s interest, that this preferment was given to the son; but when some person, taking this for granted, spoke of it to his lordship, he indignantly disclaimed all part in the transaction, and it is said that he added, “Sir, I know what is due to private regard as a man — and as a minister what must be yielded to parliamentary influence; but I never could have advised the bestowing ecclesiastical benefice and dignity upon any one whose conduct was not his first recommendation.”

  This speech, made in a moment of proud and perhaps unguarded indignation, was repeated with additions, suppressions, variations, and comments. Any thing will at court serve the purpose of those who wish to injure, and it is inconceivable what mischief was done to the minister by this slight circumstance. In the first place, the nobleman high in office, and the family connexions of the nobleman who had made the exchange of livings, and given the promise of the deanery to Bishop Clay, were offended beyond redemption — because they were in the wrong. Then, all who had done, or wished to do wrong, in similar instances, were displeased by reflection or by anticipation. But Lord Oldborough chiefly wa
s injured by misrepresentation in the quarter where it was of most consequence to him to preserve his influence. It was construed by the highest authority into disrespect, and an imperious desire to encroach on favour, to control prerogative, and to subdue the mind of his sovereign. Insidious arts had long been secretly employed to infuse these ideas; and when once the jealousy of power was excited, every trifle confirmed the suspicion which Lord Oldborough’s uncourtier-like character was little calculated to dispel. His popularity now gave umbrage, and it was hinted that he wished to make himself the independent minister of the people.

  The affairs of the country prospered, however, under his administration; there was trouble, there was hazard in change. It was argued, that it was best to wait at least for some reverse of fortune in war, or some symptom of domestic discontent, before an attempt should be made to displace this minister, formidable by his talents, and by the awe his commanding character inspired.

  The habit of confidence and deference for his genius and integrity remained, and to him no difference for some time appeared, in consequence of the secret decay of favour.

  Commissioner Falconer, timid, anxious, restless, was disposed by circumstances and by nature, or by second nature, to the vigilance of a dependent’s life; accustomed to watch and consult daily the barometer of court favour, he soon felt the coming storm; and the moment he saw prognostics of the change, he trembled, and considered how he should best provide for his own safety before the hour of danger arrived. Numerous libels against the minister appeared, which Lord Oldborough never read, but the commissioner, with his best spectacles, read them all; for he well knew and believed what the sage Selden saith, that “though some make slight of libels, yet you may see by them how the wind sets.”

  After determining by the throwing up of these straws which way the wind set, the commissioner began with all possible skill and dexterity to trim his boat. But dexterous trimmer though he was, and “prescient of change,” he did yet not foresee from what quarter the storm would come.

  Count Altenberg’s letters had unveiled completely the envoy Cunningham Falconer’s treachery, as far as it related to his intrigues abroad, and other friends detected some of his manoeuvres with politicians at home, to whom he had endeavoured to pay court, by betraying confidence reposed in him respecting the Tourville papers. Much of the mischief Cunningham had done this great minister still operated, unknown to his unsuspicious mind: but sufficient was revealed to determine Lord Oldborough to dismiss him from all future hopes of his favour.

  “Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” he began one morning, the moment the commissioner entered his cabinet, “Mr. Commissioner Falconer,” in a tone which instantly dispelled the smile at entrance from the commissioner’s countenance, and in the same moment changed his whole configurature. “My confidence is withdrawn from your son, Mr. Cunningham Falconer — for ever — and not without good reason — as you may — if you are not aware of it already — see, by those papers.”

  Lord Oldborough turned away, and asked his secretaries for his red box, as he was going to council.

  Just as he left his cabinet, he looked back, and said, “Mr. Falconer, you should know, if you be not already apprised of it, that your son Cunningham is on his road to Denmark. You should be aware that the journey is not made by my desire, or by his majesty’s order, or by any official authority; consequently he is travelling to the court of Denmark at his own expense or yours — unless he can prevail upon his Grace of Greenwich to defray his ambassadorial travelling charges, or can afford to wait for them till a total change of administration — of which, sir, if I see any symptoms to-day in council,” added his lordship, in the tone of bitter irony; “I will give you fair notice — for fair dealing is what I practise.”

  This said, the minister left the commissioner to digest his speech as he might, and repaired to council, where he found every thing apparently as smooth as usual, and where he was received by all, especially by the highest, with perfect consideration.

  Meantime Commissioner Falconer was wretched beyond expression — wretched in the certainty that his son, that he himself, had probably lost, irrecoverably, one excellent patron, before they had secured, even in case of change, another. This premature discovery of Cunningham’s intrigues totally disconcerted and overwhelmed him; and, in the bitterness of his heart, he cursed the duplicity which he had taught and encouraged, still more by example, than by precept. But Cunningham’s duplicity had more and closer folds than his own. Cunningham, conceited of his diplomatic genius, and fearful of the cautious timidity of his father, did not trust that father with the knowledge of all he did, or half of what he intended; so that the commissioner, who had thought himself at the bottom of every thing, now found that he, too, had been cheated by his son with false confidences; and was involved by him in the consequences of a scheme, of which he had never been the adviser. Commissioner Falconer knew too well, by the experience of Cumberland and others, the fate of those who suffer themselves to be lured on by second-hand promises; and who venture, without being publicly acknowledged by their employers, to undertake any diplomatic mission. Nor would Cunningham, whose natural disposition to distrust was greater than his father’s, have sold himself to any political tempter, without first signing and sealing the compact, had he been in possession of his cool judgment, and had he been in any other than the desperate circumstances in which he was placed. His secret conscience whispered that his recall was in consequence of the detection of some of his intrigues, and he dreaded to appear before the haughty, irritated minister. Deceived also by news from England that Lord Oldborough’s dismission or resignation could not be distant, Cunningham had ventured upon this bold stroke for an embassy.

  On Lord Oldborough’s return from council, the commissioner, finding, from his secret informants, that every thing had gone on smoothly, and being over-awed by the confident security of the minister, began to doubt his former belief; and, in spite of all the symptoms of change, was now inclined to think that none would take place. The sorrow and contrition with which he next appeared before Lord Oldborough were, therefore, truly sincere; and when he found himself alone once more with his lordship, earnest was the vehemence with which he disclaimed his unworthy son, and disavowed all knowledge of the transaction.

  “If I had seen cause to believe that you had any part in this transaction, sir, you would not be here at this moment: therefore your protestations are superfluous — none would be accepted if any were necessary.”

  The very circumstance of the son’s not having trusted the father completely, saved the commissioner, for this time, from utter ruin: he took breath; and presently — oh, weak man! doomed never to know how to deal with a strong character — fancying that his intercession might avail for his son, and that the pride of Lord Oldborough might be appeased, and might be suddenly wrought to forgiveness, by that tone and posture of submission and supplication used only by the subject to offended majesty, he actually threw himself at the feet of the minister.

  “My gracious lord — a pardon for my son!”

  “I beseech you, sir!” cried Lord Oldborough, endeavouring to stop him from kneeling — the commissioner sunk instantly on his knee.

  “Never will the unhappy father rise till his son be restored to your favour, my lord.”

  “Sir,” said Lord Oldborough, “I have no favour for those who have no sense of honour: rise, Mr. Falconer, and let not the father degrade himself for the son — unavailingly.”

  The accent and look were decisive — the commissioner rose. Instead of being gratified, his patron seemed shocked, if not disgusted: far from being propitiated by this sacrifice of dignity, it rendered him still more averse; and no consolatory omen appearing, the commissioner withdrew in silence, repenting that he had abased himself. After this, some days and nights passed with him in all the horrors of indecision — Could the minister weather the storm or not? — should Mr. Falconer endeavour to reinstate himself with Lord Oldborough, or secure in t
ime favour with the Duke of Greenwich? — Mrs. Falconer, to whom her husband’s groans in the middle of the night at last betrayed the sufferings of his mind, drew from him the secret of his fears and meditations. She advised strongly the going over, decidedly, and in time, but secretly, to the Greenwich faction.

  The commissioner knew that this could not be done secretly. The attention of the minister was now awake to all his motions, and the smallest movement towards his grace of Greenwich must be observed and understood. On the other hand, to abide by a falling minister was folly, especially when he had positively withdrawn his favour from Cunningham, who had the most to expect from his patronage. Between these opposite difficulties, notwithstanding the urgent excitations of Mrs. Falconer, the poor commissioner could not bring himself to decide, till the time for action was past.

  Another blow came upon him for which he was wholly unprepared — there arrived from abroad accounts of the failure of a secret expedition; and the general in his despatches named Colonel John Falconer as the officer to whose neglect of orders he principally attributed the disappointment. It appeared that orders had been sent to have his regiment at a certain place at a given hour. At the moment these orders came, Colonel John Falconer was out on a shooting party without leave. The troops, of course, on which the general had relied, did not arrive in time, and all his other combinations failed from this neglect of discipline and disobedience of orders. Colonel Falconer was sent home to be tried by a court-martial.

  “I pity you, sir,” said Lord Oldborough, as Commissioner Falconer, white as ashes, read in his presence these despatches—”I pity you, sir, from my soul: here is no fault of yours — the fault is mine.”

  It was one of the few faults of this nature which Lord Oldborough had ever committed. Except in the instance of the Falconer family, none could name any whom his lordship had placed in situations, for which they were inadequate or unfit. Of this single error he had not foreseen the consequences; they were more important, more injurious to him and to the public, than he could have calculated or conceived. It appeared now as if the Falconer family were doomed to be his ruin. That the public knew, in general, that John Falconer had been promoted by ministerial favour, Lord Oldborough was aware; but he imagined that the peculiar circumstances of that affair were known only to himself and to Commissioner Falconer’s family. To his astonishment he found, at this critical moment, that the whole transaction had reached the ear of majesty, and that it was soon publicly known. The commissioner, with protestations and oaths, declared that the secret had never, by his means, transpired — it had been divulged by the baseness of his son Cunningham, who betrayed it to the Greenwich faction. They, skilled in all the arts of undermining a rival, employed the means that were thus put into their power with great diligence and effect.