Falconer saw that rivalship with the old earl and the young baronet had worked Mr. Clay into a pa.s.sion for Seraphina; but she thought she knew how a pa.s.sion for a singer must end, and as this did not interfere with her matrimonial designs, it gave her little uneasiness. Bets ran high in the fashionable world upon the three candidates. Mrs. Falconer had no doubt that the old earl would carry off the prize, as he was extremely rich, and was ready to make any settlement and any establishment. Her prophecy would, probably, have been accomplished, but that French Clay, strongly urged by the immediate danger of losing the lady, and flattered by Seraphina's mother, who, in another style of life, was equal to Mrs.

Falconer in address and knowledge of the world, was drawn in to offer what alone could balance the charms of the baronet's youth and of the earl's wealth--a week after the offer was made, Seraphina became Mrs. French Clay. Upon this marriage Commissioner Falconer hastened immediately to reproach his wife.

"There! Mrs. Falconer, I told you it would never do--There is another son-in-law who has escaped you!"

Never did Mrs. Falconer's genius appear so great as in circ.u.mstances which would have confounded one of inferior resource. It is true, she had been thrown into surprise and consternation by the first news of this marriage; but by an able stroke she had turned defeat into victory.

With a calm air of triumph she replied to her husband, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Falconer,--French Clay was only my ostensible object: I should have been very sorry to have had him for my son-in-law; for, though it is a secret, I know that he is overwhelmed with debt. The son-in-law I really wished for has not escaped me, sir--the elder brother, English Clay--Clay, of Clay-hall, I apprehend, you will allow, is rather a better match for your daughter; and his proposal for Georgiana, his relation, Lady Trant, was last night authorized to make to me in form. And now, commissioner, there is an end of your fears that your daughter should be left, at last, upon your hands; and now, I flatter myself, you will acknowledge that I always knew what I was about--mistress of Clay-hall, and of seven thousand a year--I think that is doing pretty well for a girl who has nothing."

The commissioner was so much delighted, that he willingly permitted his lady to enjoy her triumph over him.

"Now only consider, commissioner," she pursued, "if I had huddled up that match with Petcalf!--Petcalf, I'll answer for it, in case of necessity, that is, in case of any difficulty on the part of Sir Robert Percy, I can turn over to Bell. Poor Petcalf!" added she, with a smile: "I really have a regard for that ever-lasting partner, and wish to leave him a chance of being partner for life to one of my daughters. I am sure he has reason to be excessively obliged to me for thinking of him at this moment--I must go to Georgiana and talk about wedding-clothes, laces, jewels, equipages--Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, piques himself upon having every thing the best of its kind, and in the highest style--Happy--happy girl!"

"Happy--happy father, who has got her off his hands!" cried the commissioner.

"'Twas my doing--'twas all my doing!" said Mrs. Falconer.

"It was, my dear; and how was it brought about?" said Mr. Falconer: "stay one minute from the wedding-clothes, and tell me."

Mrs. Falconer returned, and in the pride of successful intrigue explained all--that is, all she chose her husband to know.

Lady Trant was Mr. Clay's near relation, and Mrs. Falconer's intimate friend--how she had engaged her ladyship so zealously in her cause was the point which Mrs. Falconer did not choose to explain, and into which the commissioner never thought of inquiring. There are moments in which the most selfish may be betrayed into a belief that others act from generous motives; and the very principles which they hold infallible applied to all other cases, they think admit in their own of an exception: so Commissioner Falconer, notwithstanding his knowledge of the world, and his knowledge of himself, took it for granted, that, in this instance, Lady Trant acted from the impulse of disinterested friendship. This point happily admitted without question, all the rest Mrs. Falconer could satisfactorily explain. Lady Trant being a friend she could trust entirely, Mrs. Falconer had opened her mind to her ladyship, and, by her suggestion, Lady Trant had seized the happy moment when English Clay was enraged against his brother for his strange marriage, and had deplored that Clay-hall, and the fine estate belonging to it, should go to the children of an Italian singer: English Clay took fresh fire at this idea, and swore that, much as he hated the notion of a wife and children, he had a great mind to marry on purpose to punish his brother, and to cut him off, as he deserved, for ever from Clay-hall. Lady Trant commended his spirit, and urged him to put his resolution into execution--English Clay, however, balked a little at this: women now-a-days, he said, were so cursed expensive, that scarce any fortune could suffice for a wife, and horses, and all in style; and as to taking a wife, who would not be of a piece with the rest of his establishment, that was what he was not the man to do. Lady Trant answered, that of course he would wish to have a fashionable wife; that was the only thing that was wanting to make Clay-hall complete.

"But then an establishment that was quite correct, and in the first style for a bachelor, would be quite incorrect for a married man, and every thing to do over again."

"True; but then to grow into an old bachelor, and to hear every body saying, or to know that every body is saying, behind your back, 'He will never marry, you know; and all his estate will go to his brother, or the children of Seraphina, the singer.'"

There are some men who might feel tired of having the same idea repeated, and the self-same words reiterated; but English Clay was not of the number: on the contrary, repet.i.tion was necessary, in the first place, to give his mind time to take in an idea; and afterwards, reiteration was agreeable, as it impressed him with a sense of conviction without the trouble of thought. After Lady Trant had reiterated a sufficient time, he a.s.sented, and declared what her ladyship observed was d----d true; but after a silence of several minutes, he added, "There's such a cursed deal of danger of being _taken in_ by a woman, especially by one of those fashionable girls, who are all in the catch-match line." Lady Trant, who had been well tutored and prepared with replies by Mrs. Falconer, answered that as Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, had a fortune that ent.i.tled him to ask any woman, so he was, for the same reason, at full liberty to please himself; and though family connexion and fashion would of course be indispensable to him, yet money could be no object to a man of his fortune--he was not like many needy young men, obliged to sell themselves for a wife's fortune, to pay old debts: no, Lady Trant said, she was sure her relation and friend, Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, would never bargain for a wife, and, of course, where there was no bargaining there could be no fear of being taken in.

English Clay had never considered the matter in this view before; but now it was pointed out, he confessed it struck him as _very fair--very fair_: and his pride, of which he had a comfortable portion, being now touched, he a.s.serted both his disinterestedness and his right to judge and choose in this business entirely for himself. Who had a right to blame him? his fortune was his own, and he would marry a girl without sixpence, if she struck his fancy. Lady Trant supported him in his humour, and he began to name some of the young ladies of his acquaintance: one would look well in a curricle; another would do the honours of his house handsomely; another danced charmingly, and would be a credit to him in a ball-room; another would make a sweet-tempered nurse when he should have the gout: but Lady Trant found some objection to every one he mentioned, till, at last, when he had named all he could think of in remainder to his heart, Lady Trant proposed Miss Georgiana.

But she was intended for his brother.

"Oh! no." Lady Trant had very particular reasons for being positive that neither Mrs. nor Miss Falconer had ever such an idea, however they might have let it go abroad, perhaps, to conceal their real wishes--Miss Georgiana Falconer had refused so many gentlemen--Count Altenberg, report said, among others; and it was plain to Lady Trant that the young lady could not be easily pleased--that her affections were not to be engaged very readily: yet she had a notion, she owned, that if--But she was not at liberty to say more. She was only convinced that no girl was more admired than Miss Georgiana Falconer, and no woman would do greater credit to the taste of a man of fashion: she had all the requisites Mr. Clay had named: she would look well in a curricle; she would do the honours of his house charmingly; she sung and danced divinely: and Lady Trant summed up all by reiterating, that Miss Georgiana Falconer never would have married his brother.

This persuasive flattery, combining with English Clay's anger against his brother, had such effect, that he protested, if it was not for the trouble of the thing, he did not care if he married next week. But the making the proposal, and all that, was an awkward, troublesome business, to which he could not bring himself. Lady Trant kindly offered to take all trouble of this sort off his hands--undertook to speak to Mrs.

Falconer, if she had his authority for so doing, and engaged that he should be married without any kind of awkwardness or difficulty. In consequence of this a.s.surance, Lady Trant was empowered by Mr. Clay to make the proposal, which was received with so much joy and triumph by Mrs. Falconer and by her Georgiana.

But their joy and triumph were not of long duration. In this family, where none of the members of it acted in concert, or well knew what the others were doing,--where each had some separate interest, vanity, or vice, to be pursued or indulged, it often happened that one individual counteracted the other, and none were willing to abandon their selfish purpose, whether of interest or pleasure. On the present occasion, by a curious concatenation of circ.u.mstances, it happened that Buckhurst Falconer, who had formerly been the spoiled darling of his mother, was the person whose interest immediately crossed hers; and if he pursued his object, it must be at the risk of breaking off his sister Georgiana's marriage with English Clay. It is necessary to go back a few steps to trace the progress of Buckhurst Falconer's history. It is a painful task to recapitulate and follow the gradual deterioration of a disposition such as his; to mark the ruin and degradation of a character which, notwithstanding its faults, had a degree of generosity and openness, with a sense of honour and quick feeling, which early in life promised well; and which, but for parental weakness and mistaken system, might have been matured into every thing good and great. After his mother had, by introducing him early to fashionable company, and to a life of idleness and dissipation, disgusted him with the profession of the law, in which, with talents such as his, he might, with application and perseverance, have risen to wealth and eminence--after his father had, by duplicity and tyranny, forced him into that sacred profession for which the young man felt himself unfit, and which his conscience long refused to consider merely as the means of worldly provision--the next step was to send him with a profligate patron, as chaplain to a regiment, notorious for gambling. The first sacrifice of principle made, his sense of honour, duty, and virtue, once abandoned, his natural sensibility only hastened his perversion. He had a high idea of the clerical character; but his past habits and his present duties were in direct opposition. Indeed, in the situation in which he was placed, and with the society into which he was thrown, it would have required more than a common share of civil courage, and all the steadiness of a veteran in virtue, to have withstood the temptations by which he was surrounded. Even if he had possessed sufficient resolution to change his former habits, and to become a good clergyman, his companions and his patron, instead of respecting, would have shunned him as a censor.

Unwilling to give up the pleasures of conviviality, and incapable of sustaining the martyrdom of ridicule, Buckhurst Falconer soon abjured all the principles to which he could not adhere--he soon gloried in the open defiance of every thing that he had once held right. Upon all occasions, afraid of being supposed to be subject to any restraint as a clergyman, or to be influenced by any of the prejudices of his profession, he strove continually to show his liberality and spirit by daring, both in words and actions, beyond what others dared. He might have been checked and stopped in his career of extravagance by the actual want of money and of credit, had he not unluckily obtained, at this early period, a living, as a reward for saving Bishop Clay from being choked: this preferment, obtained in circ.u.mstances so ludicrous, afforded him matter of much temporary amus.e.m.e.nt and triumph; and confirmed him in the idea his father had long laboured to inculcate, that merit was unnecessary to rising in the world or in the church. But however he might endeavour to blind himself to the truth, and however general opinion was shut out from him for a time by those profligate persons with whom he lived, yet he could not help now and then seeing and feeling that he had lost respectability; and in the midst of noisy merriment he was often to himself an object of secret and sad contempt.

Soon after he was separated for a time from Colonel Hauton and his companions, by going to take possession of his living, he made an effort to regain his self-complacency--he endeavoured to distinguish himself as an eloquent preacher.--Ashamed of avowing to his a.s.sociates better motives, by which he was partly actuated, he protested that he preached only for fame and a deanery. His talents were such as soon accomplished half his wish, and ensured him celebrity--he obtained opportunities of preaching in a fashionable chapel in London--he was prodigiously followed--his theatrical manner, perhaps, increased the effect of his eloquence upon a certain cla.s.s of his auditors; but the more sober and nice-judging part of his congregation objected to this dramatic art and declamatory style, as tending to draw the attention from the doctrine to the preacher, and to obtain admiration from man more than to do honour to G.o.d. This, however, might have pa.s.sed, as a matter of speculative opinion or difference of taste; provided the preacher is believed to be in earnest, the style of his preaching is of little comparative consequence. But the moment he is suspected of being insincere, the moment it is found that he does not practise what he preaches, his power over the rational mind ceases; and to moral feeling such a clergyman becomes an object, not only of contempt, but of disgust and abhorrence.

Murmurs were soon heard against the private conduct of the celebrated preacher--perhaps envy for his talents and success mingled her voice with the honest expressions of virtuous indignation. The murmurs grew louder and louder; and Buckhurst Falconer, to avoid having inquiries made and irregularities brought to light, was obliged to yield to a rival preacher of far inferior talents, but of more correct conduct.

Commissioner Falconer was glad that his son was disappointed in this manner, as he thought it would make him more attentive than he had been of late to Colonel Hauton; and the living of Chipping-Friars was better worth looking after than the fleeting fame of a popular preacher.

Buckhurst, however, still held fame in higher estimation than it had ever been held by his father, who never valued it but as subordinate to interest. But the love of fame, however superior to mercenary habits, affords no security for the stability of conduct; on the contrary, without good sense and resolution, it infallibly accelerates the degeneracy of character. Buckhurst's hopes of obtaining literary celebrity being lost, he sunk another step, and now contented himself with the kind of notoriety which can be gained by a man of talents, who condescends to be the wit of private circles and of public dinners.

Still he met with many compet.i.tors in this line. In the metropolis, the mendicants for fame, like the professional beggars, portion out the town among them, and whoever ventures to ply beyond his allotted _walk_ is immediately jostled and abused; and the false pretensions of the wit, and all the tricks to obtain admiration, are as sure to be exposed by some rivals of the trade, as the false legs, arms, and various impostures of the beggar are denounced by the brother-beggar, on whose monopoly he has infringed. Our wit was soon compelled to confine himself to his own _set_, and gradually he degenerated from being the wit to being the good story-teller of the company. A man who lives by pleasing must become whatever the society in which he lives desire. Colonel Hauton and his a.s.sociates had but little taste for pure wit--low humour and facetious stories were more suited to their capacities--_slang_ and buffoonery were their delight. Buckhurst had early become a proficient in all these: the respect due to the clerical character had not restrained him from the exercise of arts for his own amus.e.m.e.nt, which now he found indispensably requisite for the entertainment of others, and to preserve favour with his patron. Contrary to all calculation, and, as the commissioner said, to all reasonable expectation, the old paralytic inc.u.mbent had continued to exist, and so many years had pa.s.sed since the promise had been made to Buckhurst of this living, the transaction in consequence of which it was promised was now so completely forgotten, that the commissioner feared that Colonel Hauton, no longer under the influence of shame, might consider the promise as merely gratuitous, not binding: therefore the cautious father was solicitous that his son should incessantly stick close to the colonel, who, as it was observed, never recollected his absent friends.

Buckhurst, though he knew him to be selfish and silly, yet had no suspicion of his breaking his promise, because he piqued himself on being a man of honour; and little as he cared, in general, for any one but himself, Colonel Hauton had often declared that he could not live without Buckhurst Falconer. He was always driving with the colonel, riding, betting with him, or relieving him from the sense of his own inability by making a jest of some person. Buckhurst's talents for mimickry were an infallible resource. In particular, he could mimick the two Clays to perfection, could take off the affected tone, foreign airs, and quick talkative vanity of French Clay; and represent the slow, surly reserve, supercilious silence, and solemn self-importance of English Clay. He used to imitate not only their manners, gesture, and voice, but could hold conversations in their characters, fall naturally into their train of thinking, and their modes of expression. Once a week, at least, the two Clays were introduced for the amus.e.m.e.nt of their friend Colonel Hauton, who, at the hundredth representation, was as well pleased as at the first, and never failed to "witness his wonder with an idiot laugh,"

quite unconscious that, the moment afterwards, when he had left the room, this laugh was mimicked for the entertainment of the remainder of the band of friends. It happened one night that Buckhurst Falconer, immediately after Colonel Hauton had quitted the party, began to set the table in a roar, by mimicking his laugh, snuffling voice, and silly observations; when, to his utter confusion, his patron, who he thought had left the room, returned from behind a screen, and resumed his place opposite to Buckhurst. Not Banquo's ghost could have struck more terror into the heart of the guilty. Buckhurst grew pale as death, and sudden silence ensued. Recovering his presence of mind, he thought that it was possible the colonel might be such a fool as not to have recognized himself; so by a wink to one of the company, and a kick under the table to another, he endeavoured to make them join in his attempt to pa.s.s off the whole as mimickry of a Colonel _Hallerton_. His companions supported him as he continued the farce, and the laughter recommenced. Colonel Hauton filled his gla.s.s, and said nothing; by degrees, however, he joined or pretended to join in the laugh, and left the company without Buckhurst's being able exactly to determine whether he had duped him or not. After the colonel was fairly gone,--for this time Buckhurst took care not only to look behind the screen, but even to shut the doors of the antechamber, and to wait till he heard the parting wheels,--they held a conference upon the question--duped or not duped? All agreed in flattering Buckhurst that he had completely succeeded in giving _the colonel the change_, and he was particularly complimented on his address by a Mr. Sloak, chaplain to a n.o.bleman, who was one of the company.

There was something of a hypocritical tone in Sloak's voice--something of a doubtful cast in his eyes, which, for a moment, raised in Buckhurst's mind a suspicion of him. But, the next day, Colonel Hauton appeared as usual. Buckhurst rode, drove, and jested with him as before; and the whole transaction was, on his part, forgotten. A month afterwards the rector of Chipping-Friars actually died--Commissioner Falconer despatched an express to Buckhurst, who stood beside his bed, with the news, the instant he opened his eyes in the morning. Buckhurst sent the messenger on to Colonel Hauton's at the barracks, and before Buckhurst was dressed, the colonel's groom brought him an invitation to meet a large party at dinner: "the colonel would be unavoidably engaged, by regimental business, all morning."

Buckhurst's friends and acquaintance now flocked to congratulate him, and, by dinner-time, he had, in imagination, disposed of the second year's t.i.thes, and looked out for a curate to do the duty of Chipping-Friars. The company a.s.sembled at dinner, and the colonel seemed in uncommonly good spirits, Buckhurst jovial and triumphant--nothing was said of the living, but every thing was taken for granted. In the middle of dinner the colonel cried, "Come, gentlemen, fill your gla.s.ses, and drink with me to the health of the new rector of Chipping-Friars." The gla.s.ses were filled instantly, all but Buckhurst Falconer's, who, of course, thought he should not drink his own health.

"Mr. Sloak, I have the pleasure to drink your health; Mr. Sloak, rector of Chipping-Friars," cried the patron, raising his voice. "Buckhurst,"

added he, with a malicious smile, "you do not fill your gla.s.s."

Buckhurst sat aghast. "Colonel, is this a jest?"

"A jest?--by G----! no," said the colonel; "I have had enough of jests and jesters."

"What can this mean?"

"It means," said the colonel, coolly, "that, idiot as you take me, or make me to be, I'm not fool enough to patronize a mimick to mimick myself; and, moreover, I have the good of the church too much at heart, to make a _rector_ of one who has no rect.i.tude--I can have my pun, too."

The laugh was instantly turned against Buckhurst. Starting from table, he looked alternately at Colonel Hauton and at Mr. Sloak, and could scarcely find words to express his rage. "Hypocrisy! Treachery!

Ingrat.i.tude! Cowardice! If my cloth did not protect you, you would not dare--Oh! that I were not a clergyman!" cried Buckhurst.

"It's a good time to wish it, faith!" said the colonel; "but you should have thought better before you put on the cloth."

Cursing himself, his patron, and his father, Buckhurst struck his forehead, and rushed out of the room: an insulting laugh followed from Colonel Hauton, in which Mr. Sloak and all the company joined--Buckhurst heard it with feelings of powerless desperation. He walked as fast as possible--he almost ran through the barrack-yard and through the streets of the town, to get as far as he could from this scene--from these people. He found himself in the open fields, and leaning against a tree--his heart almost bursting--for still he had a heart: "Oh! Mr.

Percy!" he exclaimed aloud, "once I had a friend--a good, generous friend--and I left him for such a wretch as this! Oh! if I had followed his advice! He knew me--knew my better self! And if he could see me at this moment, he would pity me. Oh! Caroline! you would pity--no, you would despise me, as I despise myself--I a clergyman!--Oh! father!

father! what have you to answer for!"

To this sudden pang of conscience and feeling succeeded the idea of the reproaches which his father would pour upon him--the recollection of his debts, and the impossibility of paying them--his dest.i.tute, hopeless condition--anger against the new rector of Chipping-Friars, and against his cold, malicious patron, returned with increased force upon his mind.

The remainder of that day, and the whole of the night, were pa.s.sed in these fluctuations of pa.s.sion. Whenever he closed his eyes and began to doze, he heard the voice of Colonel Hauton drinking the health of Mr.

Sloak; and twice he started from his sleep, after having collared both the rector and his patron. The day brought him no relief: the moment his creditors heard the facts, he knew he should be in immediate danger of arrest. He hurried to town to his father--his father must know his situation sooner or later, and something must be done.

We spare the reader a shocking scene of filial and parental reproaches.

They were both, at last, compelled to return to the question, What is to be done I The father declared his utter inability to pay his son's debts, and told him, that now there remained but one way of extricating himself from his difficulties--to turn to a better patron.

"Oh! sir, I have done with patrons," cried Buckhurst.

"What, then, will you do, sir? Live in a jail the remainder of your life?"

Buckhurst gave a deep sigh, and, after a pause, said, "Well, sir, go on--Who is to be my new patron?"

"Your old friend, Bishop Clay."

"I have no claim upon him. He has done much for me already."

"Therefore he will do more."

"Not pay my debts--and that is the pressing difficulty. He cannot extricate me, unless he could give me a good living immediately, and he has none better than the one I have already, except Dr. Leicester's--his deanery, you know, is in the gift of the crown. Besides, the good dean is likely to live as long as I shall."

"Stay; you do not yet, quick sir, see my scheme--a scheme which would pay your debts and put you at ease at once--Miss Tammy Clay, the bishop's sister."

"An old, ugly, cross, avaricious devil!" cried Buckhurst.

"Rich! pa.s.sing rich! and well inclined toward you, Buckhurst, as you know."

Buckhurst said that she was his abhorrence--that the idea of a man's selling himself in marriage was so repugnant to his feelings, that he would rather die in a jail.