They were both, at last, compelled to return to the question, What is to be done? 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.