“Then the sum total of the business is, that I will not; for I cannot afford to purchase you a commission, and to maintain you in the army--”
“But by using interest, perhaps, sir,” said Buckhurst.
“My interest must be all for your brother John; for I tell you I can do nothing else for him but put him into the army.--He’s a dunce.--I must get him a commission, and then I have done with him.”
“I wish I were a dunce,” said Buckhurst, sighing; “for then I might go into the army--instead of being forced into the church.”
“There’s no force upon your inclinations, Buckhurst,” said his father in a soft tone; “I only show you that it is impossible I should maintain you in the army, and, therefore, beg you to put the army out of your head. And I don’t well see what else you could do. You have not application enough for the bar, nor have I any friends among the attorneys except Sharpe, who, between you and me, might take your dinners, and leave you without a brief afterwards. You have talents, I grant,” continued the commissioner, “and if you had but application, and if your uncle the judge had not died last year--”
“Oh, sir, he is dead, and we can’t help it,” interrupted Buckhurst. “And as for me, I never had, and never shall have, any application: so pray put the bar out of your mind.”
“Very cavalier, indeed!--but I will make you serious at once, Buckhurst. You have nothing to expect from my death--I have not a farthing to leave you--my place, you know, is only for life--your mother’s fortune is all in annuity, and two girls to be provided for--and to live as we must live--up to and beyond my income--shall have nothing to leave. Though you are my eldest son, you see it is in vain to look to my death--so into the church you must go, or be a beggar--and get a living or starve. Now I have done,” concluded the commissioner, quitting his son; “and I leave you to think of what has been said.”