“I am aware that it is difficult, but not impossible,” replied Lord Oldborough, rising deliberately.
The commissioner took his leave, stammering somewhat of “nothing being impossible for a friend,” courtier, he should have said.
The commissioner set to work in earnest about the match he had in view for John. Not one, but several fair visions flitted before the eye of his politic mind. The Miss Chattertons—any one of whom would, he knew, come readily within the terms prescribed, but then they had neither fortune nor connexions. A relation of Lady Jane Granville’s—excellent connexion, and reasonable fortune; but there all the decorum of regular approaches and time would be necessary: luckily, a certain Miss Petcalf was just arrived from India with a large fortune. The general, her father, was anxious to introduce his daughter to the fashionable world, and to marry her for connexion—fortune no object to him—delicacies he would waive. The commissioner saw—counted—and decided—(there was a brother Petcalf, too, who might do for Georgiana—but for that no hurry)—John was asked by his father if he would like to be a major in a year, and a lieutenant-colonel in two years?
To be sure he would—was he a fool?
Then he must be married in a fortnight.
John did not see how this conclusion followed immediately from the premises, for John was not quite a fool; so he answered “Indeed!” An indeed so unlike Lord Oldborough’s, that the commissioner, struck with the contrast, could scarcely maintain the gravity the occasion required, and he could only pronounce the words, “General Petcalf has a daughter.”
“Ay, Miss Petcalf—ay, he is a general; true—now I see it all: well, I’m their man—I have no objection—But Miss Petcalf!—is not that the Indian girl? Is not there a drop of black blood?—No, no, father,” cried John, drawing himself up, “I’ll be d—d....”
“Hear me first, my own John,” cried his father, much and justly alarmed, for this motion was the precursor of an obstinate fit, which, if John took, perish father, mother, the whole human race, he could not be moved from the settled purpose of his soul. “Hear me, my beloved John—for you are a man of sense,” said his unblushing father: “do you think I’d have a drop of black blood for my daughter-in-law, much less let my favourite son—But there’s none—it is climate—all climate—as you may see by only looking at Mrs. Governor Carneguy, how she figures every where; and Miss Petcalf is nothing near so dark as Mrs. Carneguy, surely.”
“Surely,” said John.
“And her father, the general, gives her an Indian fortune to suit an Indian complexion.”