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TALES AND NOVELS, VOL. V
MANOEUVRING; ALMERIA; AND VIVIAN. (TALES OF FASHIONABLE LIFE.)
BY
MARIA EDGEWORTH
IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
1857.
MANOEUVRING.
CHAPTER I.
"And gave her words, where oily Flatt'ry lays
The pleasing colours of the art of praise."--PARNELL.
NOTE FROM MRS. BEAUMONT TO MISS WALSINGHAM.
"I am more grieved than I can express, my dearest Miss Walsingham, by a
cruel _contre-temps_, which must prevent my indulging myself in the
long-promised and long-expected pleasure of being at your _fete de
famille_ on Tuesday, to celebrate your dear father's birthday. I trust,
however, to your conciliating goodness, my kind young friend, to
represent my distress properly to Mr. Walsingham. Make him sensible, I
conjure you, that my _heart_ is with you all, and assure him that this
is no common apology. Indeed, I never employ such artifices with my
friends: to them, and to you in particular, my dear, I always speak with
perfect frankness and candour. Amelia, with whom, _entre nous_, you are
more a favourite than ever, is so much vexed and mortified by this
disappointment, that I see I shall not be restored to favour till I can
fix a day for going to you: yet when that may be, circumstances, which I
should not feel myself quite justified in mentioning, will not permit me
to decide.
"Kindest regards and affectionate remembrances to all your dear
circle.--Any news of the young captain? Any hopes of his return from
sea?
"Ever with perfect truth, my dearest Miss Walsingham's sincere friend,
"EUGENIA BEAUMONT.
"P.S.--Private--read to yourself.
"To be candid with you, my dear young friend, my secret reason for
denying myself the pleasure of Tuesday's fete is, that I have just
heard that there is a shocking chicken-pox in the village near you; and
I confess it is one of my weaknesses to dread even the bare rumour of
such a thing, on account of my Amelia: but I should not wish to have
this mentioned in your house, because you must be sensible your father
would think it an idle womanish fear; and you know how anxious I am for
his esteem.
"Burn this, I beseech you----
"Upon second thoughts, I believe it will be best to tell the truth, and
the whole truth, to your father, if you should see that nothing else
will do----In short, I write in haste, and must trust now, as ever,
entirely to your discretion."
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Walsingham to his daughter, as the young lady
sat at the breakfast table looking over this note, "how long do you
mean to sit the picture of The Delicate Embarrassment? To relieve you
as far as in me lies, let me assure you that I shall not ask to see
this note of Mrs. Beaumont's, which as usual seems to contain some
mighty mystery."
"No great mystery; only----"
"Only--some minikin mystery?" said Mr. Walsingham. "Yes, '_Elle est
politique pour des choux et des raves_.'--This charming widow Beaumont
is _manoeuvrer_.[1] We can't well make an English word of it. The
species, thank Heaven! is not so numerous yet in England as to require
a generic name. The description, however, has been touched by one of
our poets:
'Julia's a manager: she's born for rule,
And knows her wiser husband is a fool.
For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a stratagem.'
Even from the time when Mrs. Beaumont was a girl of sixteen I remember
her manoeuvring to gain a husband, and then manoeuvring to manage him,
which she did with triumphant address."
"What sort of a man was Colonel Beaumont?"
"An excellent man; an open-hearted soldier, of the strictest honour and
integrity."
"Then is it not much in Mrs. Beaumont's favour, that she enjoyed the
confidence of such a man, and that he left her guardian to his son and
daughter?"
"If he had lived with her long enough to become acquainted with her real
character, what you say, my dear, would be unanswerable. But Colonel
Beaumont died a few years after his marriage, and during those few years
he was chiefly with his regiment."
"You will, however, allow," said Miss Walsingham, "that since his death
Mrs. Beaumont has justified his confidence.--Has she not been a good
guardian, and an affectionate mother?"
"Why--as a guardian, I think she has allowed her son too much liberty,
and too much money. I have heard that young Beaumont has lost a
considerable sum at Newmarket, I grant you that Mrs. Beaumont is an
affectionate mother, and I am convinced that she is extremely anxious to
advance the worldly interests of her children; still I cannot, my dear,
agree with you, that she is a good mother. In the whole course of the
education of her son and daughter, she has pursued a system of artifice.
Whatever she wanted them to learn, or to do, or to leave undone, some
stratagem, sentimental or scenic, was employed; somebody was to hint to
some other body to act upon Amelia to make her do so and so.
Nothing--that is, nothing like truth, ever came directly from the
mother: there were always whisperings and mysteries, and 'Don't say that
before Amelia!' and 'I would not have this told to Edward,' because it
might make him like something that she did not wish that he should like,
and that she had _her reasons_ for not letting him know that she did not
wish him to like. There was always some truth to be concealed for some
mighty good purpose; and things and persons were to be represented in
false lights, to produce on some particular occasion some partial
effect. All this succeeded admirably in detail, and for the management
of helpless, ignorant, credulous childhood. But mark the consequences
of this system: children grow up, and cannot always see, hear, and
understand, just as their mothers please. They will go into the world;
they will mix with others; their eyes will be opened; they will see
through the whole system of artifice by which their childhood was so
cleverly managed; and then, confidence in the parent must be destroyed
for ever."
Miss Walsingham acknowledged the truth of what her father said; but she
observed that this was a common error in education, which had the
sanction of high authority in its favour; even the eloquent Rousseau,
and the elegant and ingenious Madame de Genlis. "And it is certain,"
continued Miss Walsingham, "that Mrs. Beaumont has not made her children
artful; both Amelia and Mr. Beaumont are remarkably open, sincere,
honourable characters. Mr. Beaumont, indeed, carries his sincerity
almost to a fault: he is too blunt, perhaps, in his manner;--and Amelia,
though she is of such a timid, gentle temper, and so much afraid of
giving pain, has always courage enough to speak the truth, even in
circumstances where it is most difficult. So at least you must allow, my
dear father, that Mrs. Beaumont has made her children sincere."
"I am sorry, my dear, to seem uncharitable; but I must observe, that
sometimes the very faults of parents produce a tendency to opposite
virtues in their children: for the children suffer by the consequences
of these faults, and detecting, despise, and resolve to avoid them. As
to Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, their acquaintance with our family has been
no unfavourable circumstance in their education. They saw amongst us the
advantages of sincerity: they became attached to you, and to my
excellent ward Captain Walsingham; he obtained strong power over young
Beaumont's mind, and used it to the best purposes. Your friendship for
Amelia was, I think, equally advantageous to her: as you are nearly of
the same age, you had opportunities of winning her confidence; and your
stronger mind fortified hers, and inspired her timid character with the
courage necessary to be sincere."
"Well," persisted Miss Walsingham, "though Mrs. Beaumont may have used a
little _finesse_ towards her children in trifles, yet in matters of
consequence, I do think that she has no interest but theirs; and her
affection for them will make her lay aside all art, when their happiness
is at stake."
Mr. Walsingham shook his head.--"And do you then really believe, my dear
Marianne, that Mrs. Beaumont would consider any thing, for instance, in
the marriage of her son and daughter, but fortune, and what the world
calls _connexion and establishments_?"
"Certainly I cannot think that these are Mrs. Beaumont's first objects;
because we are people but of small fortune, and yet she prefers us to
many of large estates and higher station."
"You should say, she professes to prefer us," replied Mr. Walsingham.
"And do you really believe her to be sincere? Now, there is my ward,
Captain Walsingham, for whom she pretends to have such a regard, do you
think that Mrs. Beaumont wishes her daughter should marry him?"
"I do, indeed; but Mrs. Beaumont must speak cautiously on that subject;
this is prudence, not dissimulation: for you know that my cousin
Walsingham never declared his attachment to Miss Beaumont; on the
contrary, he always took the most scrupulous pains to conceal it from
her, because he had not fortune enough to marry, and he was too
honourable to attempt, or even to wish, to engage the affections of one
to whom he had no prospect of being united."
"He is a noble fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Walsingham. "There is no
sacrifice of pleasure or interest he would hesitate to make to his
duty. For his friends there is no exertion, no endurance, no
forbearance, of which he has not shown himself capable. For his
country----All I ask from Heaven for him is, opportunity to serve his
country. Whether circumstances, whether success, will ever prove his
merits to the world, I cannot foretell; but I shall always glory in him
as my ward, my relation, my friend."
"Mrs. Beaumont speaks of him just as you do," said Miss Walsingham.
"Speaks, but not thinks," said Mr. Walsingham. "No, no! Captain
Walsingham is not the man she desires for a son-in-law. She wants to
marry Amelia to Sir John Hunter."
"To Sir John Hunter!"
"Yes, to Sir John Hunter, a being without literature, without morals,
without even youth, to plead in his favour. He is nearly forty years
old, old enough to be Amelia's father; yet this is the man whom Mrs.
Beaumont prefers for the husband of her beloved daughter, because he is
heir presumptive to a great estate, and has the chance of a reversionary
earldom.--And this is your modern good mother."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Miss Walsingham, "you do Mrs. Beaumont injustice; I
assure you she despises Sir John Hunter as much as we do."
"Yet observe the court she has paid to the whole family of the Hunters."
"Yes, but that has been merely from regard to the late Lady Hunter, who
was her particular friend."
"_Particular friend!_ a vamped-up, sentimental conversation reason."
"But I assure you," persisted Miss Walsingham, "that I know Mrs.
Beaumont's mind better than you do, father, at least on this subject."
"You! a girl of eighteen, pretend to know a manoeuvrer of her age!"
"Only let me tell you my reasons.--It was but last week that Mrs.
Beaumont told me that she did not wish to encourage Sir John Hunter, and
that she should be perfectly happy if she could see Amelia united to
such a man as Captain Walsingham."
"Such a man as Captain Walsingham! nicely guarded expression!"
"But you have not heard all yet.--Mrs. Beaumont anxiously inquired
from me whether he had made any prize-money, whether there was any
chance of his returning soon; and she added, with particular emphasis,
'You don't know how much I wish it! You don't know what a favourite he
is of mine!'"
"That last, I will lay any wager," cried Mr. Walsingham, "she said in a
whisper, and in a corner."
"Yes, but she could not do otherwise, for Amelia was present. Mrs.
Beaumont took me aside."
"Aside; ay, ay, but take care, I advise you, of her _asides_, and her
whisperings, and her cornerings, and her inuendoes, and semiconfidences,
lest your own happiness, my dear, unsuspecting, enthusiastic daughter,
should be the sacrifice."
Miss Walsingham now stood perfectly silent, in embarrassed and
breathless anxiety.
"I see," continued her father, "that Mrs. Beaumont, for whose mighty
genius one intrigue at a time is not sufficient, wants also to persuade
you, my dear, that she wishes to have you for a daughter-in-law: and
yet all the time she is doing every thing she can to make her son marry
that fool, Miss Hunter, merely because she has two hundred thousand
pounds fortune."
"There I can assure you that you are mistaken," said Miss Walsingham;
"Mrs. Beaumont dreads that her son should marry Miss Hunter. Mrs.
Beaumont thinks her as silly as you do, and complained to me of her
having no taste for literature, or for any thing, but dress, and
trifling conversation."
"I wonder, then, that Mrs. Beaumont selects her continually for her
companion."
"She thinks Miss Hunter the most insipid companion in the world; but I
dare not tell you, lest you should laugh at me again, that it was for
the sake of the late Lady Hunter that Mrs. Beaumont was so kind to the
daughter; and now Miss Hunter is so fond of her, and so grateful, that,
as Mrs. Beaumont says, it would be cruelty to shake her off."
"Mighty plausible! But the truth of all this, begging Mrs. Beaumont's
pardon, I doubt; I will not call it a falsehood, but I may be permitted
to call it a _Beaumont_. Time will show: and in the mean time, my dear
daughter, be on your guard against Mrs. Beaumont's art, and against your
own credulity. The momentary pain I give my friends by speaking the
plain truth, I have always found overbalanced by the pleasure and
advantage of mutual confidence. Our domestic happiness has arisen
chiefly from our habits of openness and sincerity. Our whole souls are
laid open; there is no management, no '_intrigue de cabinet_, no
'_esprit de la ligue_.'"
Mr. Walsingham now left the room; and Miss Walsingham, absorbed in
reflections more interesting to her than even the defence of Mrs.
Beaumont, went out to walk. Her father's house was situated in a
beautiful part of Devonshire, near the sea-shore, in the neighbourhood
of Plymouth; and as Miss Walsingham was walking on the beach, she saw an
old fisherman mooring his boat to the projecting stump of a tree. His
figure was so picturesque, that she stopped to sketch it; and as she was
drawing, a woman came from the cottage near the shore to ask the
fisherman what luck he had had. "A fine turbot," says he, "and a
john-doree."
"Then away with them this minute to Beaumont Park," said the woman; "for
here's Madam Beaumont's man, Martin, called _in a flustrum_ while you
was away, to say madam must have the nicest of our fish, whatsomever it
might be, and a john-doree, if it could be had for love or money, for
Tuesday."--Here the woman, perceiving Miss Walsingham, dropped a curtsy.
"Your humble servant, Miss Walsingham," said the woman.
"On Tuesday?" said Miss Walsingham: "are you sure that Mrs. Beaumont
bespoke the fish for Tuesday?"
"Oh, _sartin_ sure, miss; for Martin mentioned, moreover, what he had
heard talk in the servants' hall, that there is to be a very _pettiklar_
old gentleman, as rich! as rich! as rich can be! from foreign parts, and
a great friend of the colonel that's dead; and he--that is, the old
_pettiklar_ gentleman--is to be down all the way from Lon'on to dine at
the park on Tuesday for _sartin_: so, husband, away with the john-doree
and the turbot, while they be fresh."
"But why," thought Miss Walsingham, "did not Mrs. Beaumont tell us the
plain truth, if this is the truth?"
CHAPTER II.
"Young Hermes next, a close contriving god,
Her brows encircled with his serpent rod;
Then plots and fair excuses fill her brain,
And views of breaking am'rous vows for gain."
The information which Mrs. Beaumont's man, Martin, had learned from the
servants' hall, and had communicated to the fisherman's wife, was more
correct, and had been less amplified, embellished, misunderstood, or
misrepresented, than is usually found to be the case with pieces of news
which are so heard and so repeated. It was true that Mrs. Beaumont
expected to see on Tuesday an old gentleman, a Mr. Palmer, who had been
a friend of her husband's; he had lately returned from Jamaica, where he
had made a large fortune. It is true, also, that this old gentleman was
_a little particular_, but not precisely in the sense in which the
fisherman's wife understood the phrase; he was not particularly fond of
john-dorees and turbots, but he was particularly fond of making his
fellow-creatures happy; particularly generous, particularly open and
honest in his nature, abhorring all artifice himself, and unsuspicious
of it in others. He was unacquainted with Mrs. Beaumont's character, as
he had been for many years in the West Indies, and he knew her only from
her letters, in which she appeared every thing that was candid and
amiable. His great friendship for her deceased husband also inclined him
to like her. Colonel Beaumont had appointed him one of the guardians of
his children, but Mr. Palmer, being absent from England, had declined to
act: he was also trustee to Mrs. Beaumont's marriage-settlement, and she
had represented that it was necessary he should be present at the
settlement of her family affairs upon her son's coming of age; an event
which was to take place in a few days. The urgent representations of
Mrs. Beaumont, and the anxious desire she expressed to see Mr. Palmer,
had at last prevailed with the good old gentleman to journey down to
Beaumont Park, though he was a valetudinarian, and though he was
obliged, he said, to return to Jamaica with the West India fleet, which
was expected to sail in ten days; so that he announced positively that
he could stay but a week at Beaumont Park with his good friends and
relations.
He was related but distantly to the Beaumonts, and he stood in precisely
the same degree of relationship to the Walsinghams. He had no other
relations, and his fortune was completely at his own disposal. On this
fortune our cunning widow had speculated long and deeply, though in fact
there was no occasion for art: it was Mr. Palmer's intention to leave
his large fortune to the Beaumonts; or to divide it between the Beaumont
and Walsingham families; and had she been sincere in her professed
desire of a complete union by a double marriage between the
representatives of the families, her favourite object would have been,
in either case, equally secure. Here was a plain, easy road to her
object; but it was too direct for Mrs. Beaumont. With all her abilities,
she could never comprehend the axiom that a right line is the shortest
possible line between any two points:--an axiom equally true in morals
and in mathematics. No, the serpentine line was, in her opinion, not
only the most beautiful, but the most expeditious, safe, and convenient.
She had formed a triple scheme of such intricacy, that it is necessary
distinctly to state the argument of her plot, lest the action should be
too complicated to be easily developed.
She had, in the first place, a design of engrossing the whole of Mr.
Palmer's fortune for her own family; and for this purpose she determined
to prevent Mr. Palmer from becoming acquainted with his other relations,
the Walsinghams, to whom she had always had a secret dislike, because
they were of remarkably open, sincere characters. As Mr. Palmer proposed
to stay but a week in the country, this scheme of preventing their
meeting seemed feasible.
In the second place, Mrs. Beaumont wished to marry her daughter to Sir
John Hunter, because Sir John was heir expectant to a large estate,
called the Wigram estate, and because there was in his family a certain
reversionary title, the earldom of Puckeridge, which would devolve to
Sir John after the death of a near relation.
In the third place, Mrs. Beaumont wished to marry her own son to Miss
Hunter, who was Sir John's sister by a second marriage, and above twenty
years younger than he was: this lady was preferred to Miss Walsingham
for a daughter-in-law, for the reasons which Mr. Walsingham had given;
because she possessed an independent fortune of two hundred thousand
pounds, and because she was so childish and silly that Mrs. Beaumont
thought she could always manage her easily, and by this means retain
power over her son. Miss Hunter was very pretty, and Mrs. Beaumont had
observed that her son had sometimes been struck with her beauty
sufficiently to give hopes that, by proper management, he might be
diverted from his serious, sober preference of Miss Walsingham.
Mrs. Beaumont foresaw many difficulties in the execution of these plans.
She knew that Amelia liked Captain Walsingham, and that Captain
Walsingham was attached to her, though he had never declared his love:
and she dreaded that Captain Walsingham, who was at this time at sea,
should return, just whilst Mr. Palmer was with her; because she was well
aware that the captain was a kind of man Mr. Palmer would infinitely
prefer to Sir John Hunter. Indeed, she had been secretly informed that
Mr. Palmer hated every one who had a title; therefore she could not,
whilst he was with her, openly encourage Sir John Hunter in his
addresses to Amelia. To conciliate these seemingly incompatible schemes,
she determined----But let our heroine speak for herself.
"My dearest Miss Hunter," said she, "now we are by ourselves, let me
open my mind to you; I have been watching for an opportunity these two
days, but so hurried as I have been!--Where's Amelia?"
"Out walking, ma'am. She told me you begged her to walk to get rid of
her head-ache; and that she might look well to-day, as Mr. Palmer is to
come. I would not go with her, because you whispered to me at breakfast
that you had something very particular to say to me."
"But you did not give _that_ as a reason, I hope! Surely you didn't
tell Amelia that I had something particular to say to you?"
"Oh, no, ma'am; I told her that I had something to do about my
dress--and so I had--my new hat to try on."
"True, my love; quite right; for you know I wouldn't have her suspect
that we had any thing to say to each other that we didn't wish her to
hear, especially as it is about herself."
"Herself!--Oh, is it?" said Miss Hunter, in a tone of disappointment.
"And about you, too, my darling. Be assured I have no daughter I love
better, or ever shall. With such a son as I have, and such a
daughter-in-law as I hope and trust I shall have ere long, I shall think
myself the most fortunate of mothers."
Silly Miss Hunter's face brightened up again. "But now, my love,"
continued Mrs. Beaumont, taking her hand, leading her to a window, and
speaking very low, though no one else was in the room, "before we talk
any more of what is nearest my heart, I must get you to write a note for
me to your brother, directly, for there is a circumstance I
forgot--thoughtless creature that I am! but indeed, I never can _think_
when I _feel_ much. Some people are always so collected and prudent. But
I have none of that!--Heigho! Well, my dear, you must supply my
deficiencies. You will write and tell Sir John, that in my agitation
when he made his proposal for my Amelia, of which I so frankly approved,
I omitted to warn him, that no hint must be given that I do any thing
more than permit him to address my daughter upon an equal footing with
any other gentleman who might address her. Stay, my dear; you don't
understand me, I see. In short, to be candid with you--old Mr. Palmer is
coming to-day, you know. Now, my dear, you must be aware that it is of
the greatest consequence to the interests of my family, of which I hope
you always consider yourself (for I have always considered you) as
forming a part, and a very distinguished part--I say, my darling, that
we must consider that it is our interest in all things to please and
humour this good old gentleman. He will be with us but for a week, you
know. Well, the point is this. I have been informed from undoubted
authority, people who were about him at the time, and knew, that the
reason he quarrelled with that nephew of his, who died two years ago,
was the young man's having accepted a baronetage: and at that time old
Palmer swore, that _no sprig of quality_--those were the very
words--should ever inherit a shilling of his money. Such a ridiculous
whim! But these London merchants, who make great fortunes from nothing,
are apt to have their little eccentricities; and then, they have so much
pride in their own way, and so much self-will and mercantile
downrightness in their manners, that there's no managing them but by
humouring their fancies. I'm convinced, if Mr. Palmer suspected that I
even wished Amelia to marry Sir John, he would never leave any of us a
farthing, and it would all go to the Walsinghams. So, my dear, do you
explain to your brother, that though I have not the least objection to
his coming here whilst Mr. Palmer is with us, he must not take umbrage
at any seeming coldness in my manner. He knows my heart, I trust; at
least, you do, my Albina. And even if I should be obliged to receive or
to go to see the Walsinghams, which, by-the-bye, I have taken means to
prevent; but if it should happen that they were to hear of Palmer's
being with us, and come, and Sir John should meet them, he must not he
surprised or jealous at my speaking in the highest terms of Captain
Walsingham. This I shall be obliged to do as a blind before Mr. Palmer.
I must make him believe that I prefer a commoner for my son-in-law, or
we are all undone with him. You know it is my son's interest, and yours,
as well as your brother's and Amelia's, that I consider. So explain all
this to him, my dear; you will explain it so much better, and make it so
much more palpable to your brother than I could."
"Dear Mrs. Beaumont, how can you think so? You who write so well, and
such long letters about every thing, and so quick! But goodness! I shall
never get it all into a letter I'm afraid, and before Mr. Palmer comes,
and then it will soon be dressing-time! La! I could say it all to John
in five minutes: what a pity he is not here to-day!"
"Well, my love, then suppose you were to go to him; as you so prudently
remark, things of this sort are always so much easier and better said
than written. And now I look at my watch, I see you cannot have time to
write a long letter, and to dress. So I believe, though I shall grieve
to lose you, I must consent to your going for this one day to your
brother's. My carriage and Williamson shall attend you," said Mrs.
Beaumont, ringing the bell to order the carriage; "but remember you
promise me now to come back, positively, to-morrow, or next day at
farthest, if I should not be able to send the carriage again to-morrow.
I would not, upon any account, have you away, if it can possibly be
helped, whilst Mr. Palmer is here, considering you as I do [The carriage
to the door directly, and Williamson to attend Miss Hunter]--considering
you as I do, my dearest Albina, quite as my own daughter."
"Oh, my dearest Mrs. Beaumont, you are so kind!" said the poor girl,
whom Mrs. Beaumont could always thus easily _pay with words_.
The carriage came to the door with such prompt obedience to Mrs.
Beaumont's summons, that one of a more reflecting or calculating nature
than Miss Hunter might have suspected that it had been ordered to be in
readiness to carry her away this morning.
"Fare ye well, my own Albina! be sure you don't stay long from us," said
Mrs. Beaumont, accompanying her to the hall-door. "A thousand kind
things to everybody, and your brother in particular. But, my dear Miss
Hunter, one word more," said she, following to the carriage door, and
whispering: "there's another thing that I must trust to your management
and cleverness;--I mentioned that Mr. Palmer was to know nothing of
_the approbation_ of Sir John's suit."
"Oh, yes, yes, ma'am, I understand perfectly."
"But stay, my love; you must understand, too, that it is to be quite a
secret between ourselves, not to be mentioned to my son even; for you
know he is sudden in his temper, and warm and quite in the Walsingham
interest, and there's no knowing what might be the consequence if it
were to be let out imprudently, and Sir John and Edward both so
high-spirited. One can't be too cautious, my dear, to prevent mischief
between gentlemen. So caution your brother to leave it to me to break
it, and bring things about with Edward and Amelia,"--[stopping Miss
Hunter again as she made a second effort to get into the carriage,]--
"You comprehend, my dear, that Amelia is not in the secret yet--so not
a word from your brother to her about _my approbation!_--that would
ruin all. I trust to his honour; and besides--" drawing the young lady
back for the third whisper.--Miss Hunter stood suspended with one foot
in air, and the other on the step; the coachman, impatient to be off,
manoeuvred to make his horses restless, whilst at the same time he cried
aloud--"So! so! Prancer--stand still, Peacock; stand still, sir!"
Miss Hunter jumped down on terra firma. "Those horses frighten me so for
you, my dear!" said Mrs. Beaumont. "Martin, stand at their heads. My
dear child, I won't detain you, for you'll be late. I had only to say,
that--oh! that I trust implicitly to your brother's honour; but, besides
this, it will not be amiss for you to hint, as you know you can
delicately--_delicately_, you understand--that it is for his interest to
leave me to manage every thing. Yet none of this is to be said _as if
from me_--pray don't let it come from me. Say it all from yourself.
Don't let my name be mentioned at all. Don't commit me, you understand?"
"Perfectly, perfectly, ma'am: one kiss, dear Mrs. Beaumont, and adieu.
Is my dressing-box in? Tell him to drive fast, for I hate going slow.
Dearest Mrs. Beaumont, good bye. I feel as if I were going for an age,
though it is only for one day."
"Dear, affectionate girl! I love _heart_--Good bye--Drive fast, as Miss
Hunter desires you."
Our fair politician, well satisfied with the understanding of her
confidante, which never comprehended more than met the ear, and secure
in a charge d'affaires, whose powers it was never necessary to limit,
stood on the steps before the house-door, deep in reverie, for some
minutes after the carriage had driven away, till she was roused by
seeing her son returning from his morning's ride.
CHAPTER III.
"Will you hear a Spanish lady,
How she woo'd an English man?
Garments gay as rich as may be,
Deck'd with jewels, she had on."
THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE.
_Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry_
Mr. Beaumont had just been at a neighbouring farm-house, where there
lived one of Mr. Walsingham's tenants; a man of the name of Birch, a
respectable farmer, who was originally from Ireland, and whose son was
at sea with Captain Walsingham. The captain had taken young Birch under
his particular care, at Mr. Walsingham's request.
Birch's parents had this day received a letter from their son, which in
the joy and pride of their hearts they showed to Mr. Beaumont, who was
in the habit of calling at their house to inquire if they had heard any
news of their son, or of Captain Walsingham. Mr. Beaumont liked to read
Birch's letters, because they were written with characteristic
simplicity and affection, and somewhat in the Irish idiom, which this
young sailor's English education had not made him entirely forget.
LETTER FROM BIRCH TO HIS PARENTS.
"H.M.S. l'Ambuscade.
"HONOURED PARENTS,
"I write this from sea, lat. N. 44.15--long. W. 9.45--wind N.N.E.--to
let you know you will not see me so soon as I said in my last, of the
16th. Yesterday, P.M. two o'clock, some despatches were brought to my
good captain, by the Pickle sloop, which will to-morrow, wind and
weather permitting, alter our destination. What the nature of them is I
cannot impart to you, for it has not transpired beyond the lieutenants;
but whatever I do under the orders of my good captain, I am satisfied
and confident all is for the best. For my own share, I long for an
opportunity of fighting the French, and of showing the captain _what is
in me_, and that the pains he has took to make a gentleman, and an
honour to his majesty's service, of me, is not thrown away. Had he been
my own father, or brother, he could not be better, or _done more_. God
willing, I will never disgrace his principles, for it would be my
ambition to be like him in every respect; and he says, if I behave
myself as I ought, I shall soon be a lieutenant; and a lieutenant in his
majesty's navy is as good a gentleman as any in England, and has a right
(tell my sister Kitty) to hand the first woman in Lon'on out of her
carriage, if he pleases, and if she pleases.
"Now we talk of ladies, and as please God we shall soon be in action,
and may not have another opportunity of writing to you this great while,
for there is talk of our sailing southward with the fleet to bring the
French and Spaniards to action, I think it best to send you all the news
I have in this letter. But pray bid Kate, with my love, mind this, that
not a word of the following is to take wind for her life, on account of
my not knowing if it might be agreeable, or how it might affect my good
captain, and others that shall be nameless. You must know then that when
we were at ----, where we were stationed six weeks and two days, waiting
for the winds, and one cause or other, we used to employ ourselves, I
and my captain, taking soundings (which I can't more particularly
explain the nature of to you, especially in a letter); for he always
took me out to attend him in preference to any other; and after he had
completed his soundings, and had no farther use for me in that job, I
asked him leave to go near the same place in the evening to fish, which
my good captain consented to (as he always does to what (duty done) can
gratify me), provided I was in my ship by ten. Now you must know that
there are convents in this country (which you have often heard of,
Kitty, no doubt), being damnable places, where young _Catholic_ women
are shut up unmarried, often, it is to be reasonably supposed, against
their wills. And there is a convent in one of the suburbs which has a
high back wall to the garden of it that comes down near the strand; and
it was under this wall we two used to sound, and that afterwards I used
to be fishing. And one evening, when I was not thinking of any such
thing, there comes over the wall a huge nosegay of flowers, with a stone
in it, that made me jump. And this for three evenings running the same
way, about the same hour; till at last one evening as I was looking up
at the wall, as I had now learned to do about the time the nosegays were
thrown over, I saw coming down a stone tied to a string, and to the
stone a letter, the words of which I can't particularly take upon me to
recollect, because I gave up the paper to my captain, who desired it of
me, and took no copy; but the sense was, that in that convent there was
shut up a lady, the daughter of an English gentleman by a Spanish wife,
both her parents being dead, and her Spanish relations and
father-confessor (or catholic priest of a man), not wishing she should
get to England, where she might be what she had a right to be by birth,
at least by her father's side (a _protestant_), shut her up since she
was a child. And that there was a relative of hers in England, who with
a wicked lawyer or attorney had got possession of her estate, and made
every body believe she was dead. And so, it being seven years and more
since she was heard of, she is what is called dead in law, which sort of
death however won't signify, if she appears again. Wherefore the letter
goes on to say, she would be particularly glad to make her escape, and
get over to old England. But she confesses that she is neither young nor
handsome, and may-be never may be rich; therefore, that whoever helps
her must do it for the sake of doing good and nothing else; for though
she would pay all expenses handsomely, she could not promise more. And
that she knew the danger of the undertaking to be great; greater for
them that would carry her off even than for herself. That she knows,
however, that British sailors are brave as they are generous (this part
of the letter was very well indited, and went straight to my heart the
minute ever I read it); and she wished it could be in the power of
Captain Walsingham to take her under his immediate protection, and that
she had taken measures so as she could escape over the wall of the
garden if he would have a boat in readiness to carry her to his ship;
and at the same hour next evening the stone should be let down as usual,
and he might fasten his answer to it, which would be drawn up in due
course. Concluding all this with, 'That she would not go at all unless
Captain Walsingham came for her himself (certifying himself to be
himself, I suppose), for she knew him to be a gentleman by reputation,
and she should be safe under his protection, and so would her secret,
she was confident, at all events.' This was the entire and sum total of
the letter. So when I had read to the end, and looked for the postscript
and all, I found for my pains that the lady mistook me for my captain,
or would not have written or thrown the nosegays. So I took the letter
to my captain; and what he answered, and how it was settled (by signals,
I suppose) between them after, it was not for me to inquire. Not a word
more was said by him to me or I to him on the topic, till the very night
we were to sail for England. It was then that our captain took me aside,
and he says, 'Birch, will you assist me? I ask this not as your captain,
so you are at liberty to do as you please. Will you help me to rescue
this lady, who seems to be unjustly detained, and to carry her back safe
to her country and her friends?' I told him I would do that or any thing
else he bid me, confident he would never ask me to do a wrong thing; and
as to the lady, I should be proud to help to carry her off to old
England and her lawful friends, only I thought (if I might be so bold)
it was a pity she was not young and handsome, for his sake. At that he
smiled, and only said, 'Perhaps it was best for him as it was.' Then he
settled about the boat, and who were to go, and when. It was twelve
o'clock striking by the great town clock when we were under the walls of
the convent, as appointed. And all was hush and silent as the grave for
our very lives. For it was a matter of life or death, I promise you, and
we all knew as much, and the sailors had a dread of the Inquisition upon
them that was beyond all terrible! So we watched and waited, and waited
and watched so long, that we thought something must have gone wrong, or
that all was found out, and the captain could not delay the ship's
sailing; and he struck his repeater, and it was within a quarter of one,
and he said, 'It is too late; we must put back.' Just then, I, that was
watching with the lantern in my hand, gave notice, and first there comes
down a white bundle, fastened to the stone and cord. Then the captain
and I fixed the ladder of ropes, and down came the lady, as well as ever
she went up, and not a word but away with her: the captain had her in a
trice in our boat, safe and snug, and off we put, rowing for the bare
life, all silent as ever. I think I hear the striking of our oars and
the plashing of the water this minute, which we would have gladly
silenced, but could not any way in nature. But none heard it, or at
least took any notice against us. I can give you no idea of the terror
which the lady manifested when the boat stood out to sea, at the
slightest squall of wind, or the least agitation of the waves; for
besides being naturally cowardly, as all or most women are for the first
time at sea, here was a poor soul who had been watching, and may be
fasting, and worn out mind and body with the terror of perfecting her
escape from the convent, where she had been immured all her life, and as
helpless as a child. So it was wonderful she went through it as well as
she did and without screaming, which should be an example to Kate and
others. Glad enough even we men were when we reached the ship. There
was, at that time, a silence on board you could have heard a pin drop,
all being in perfect readiness for getting under way, the sails ready
for dropping, and officers and sailors waiting in the greatest
expectation of our boat's return. Our boat passed swiftly alongside, and
great beyond belief was the astonishment of all at seeing a woman
veiled, hoisted out, and in, and ushered below, half fainting. I never
felt more comfortable in my life than when we found her and ourselves
safe aboard l'Ambuscade. The anchor was instantly weighed, all sail
made, and the ship stood out to sea. To the lady the captain gave up his
cabin: double sentries were placed, and as the captain ordered, every
precaution that could shield her character in such suspicious
circumstances were enforced with the utmost punctilio. I cannot
describe, nor can you even conceive, Kate, the degree of curiosity shown
about her; all striving to get a sight of her when she first went down,
and most zealous they were to bring lights; but that would not do, for
they could not see her for her veil. Yet through all we could make out
that she was a fine figure of a woman at any rate, and something more
than ordinary, from the air she had with her. The next day when she was
sitting on deck the wind by times would blow aside her veil so as to
give us glimpses of her face; when, to our surprise, and I am sure to
the captain's satisfaction, we found she was beyond all contradiction
young and handsome. And moreover I have reason to believe she has fine
jewels with her, besides a ring from her own finger, which with a very
pretty action she put on his, that next day on deck, as I noticed, when
nobody was minding. So that no doubt she is as much richer as she is
handsomer than she made believe, contrary to the ways of other women,
which is in her favour and my good captain's; for from what I can judge,
after all he has done for her, she has no dislike nor objection to him.
"I have not time to add any thing more, but my love to Kitty, and Nancy,
and Tom, and Mary, and little Bess; and, honoured parents, wishing you
good health as I am in, thank God, at this present,
"I am your dutiful and loving son,
"JOHN BIRCH.
"P.S. I open my letter to tell you we are going southward immediately,
all in high spirits, as there is hopes of meeting the French and
Spaniards. We have just hoisted the nun-lady on board an English packet.
God send her and this letter safe to England."
* * * * *
Mr. Beaumont might perhaps have been amused by this romantic story, and
by the style in which it was told, if he had not been alarmed by the
hint at the conclusion of the letter, that the lady was not indifferent
to her deliverer. Now Mr. Beaumont earnestly wished that his friend
Captain Walsingham might become his brother-in-law; and he began to have
fears about this Spanish lady, with her gratitude, her rings, and the
advantages of the great interest her misfortunes and helpless condition
would excite, together with the vast temptations to fall in love that
might occur during the course of a voyage. Had he taken notice of the
postscript, his mind would have been somewhat relieved. On this subject
Mr. Beaumont pondered all the way that he rode home, and on this subject
he was still meditating when he saw his mother standing on the steps,
where we left her when Miss Hunter's carriage drove away.
CHAPTER IV.
"I shall in all my best obey you, madam."
HAMLET.
"Did you meet Miss Hunter, my dear son?" said she.
"Yes, ma'am, I just passed the carriage in the avenue: she is going
home, is not she?" said he, rather in a tone of satisfaction.
"Ah, poor thing! yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, in a most pathetic tone: "ah,
poor thing!"
"Why, ma'am, what has happened to her? What's the matter?"
"Matter? Oh, nothing!--Did I say that any thing was the matter? Don't
speak so loud," whispered she: "your groom heard every word we said;
stay till he is out of hearing, and then we can talk."
"I don't care if all the world hears what I say," cried Mr. Beaumont
hastily: but, as if suppressing his rising indignation, he, with a
milder look and tone, added, "I cannot conceive, my dear mother, why you
are always so afraid of being overheard."
"Servants, my dear, make such mischief, you know, by misunderstanding
and misrepresenting every thing they hear; and they repeat things so
oddly, and raise such strange reports!"
"True--very true indeed, ma'am," said Mr. Beaumont. "You are quite
right, and I beg pardon for being so hasty--I wish you could teach me a
little of your patience and prudence."
"Prudence! ah! my dear Edward, 'tis only time and sad experience of the
world can teach that to people of _our_ open tempers. I was at your age
ten times more imprudent and unsuspicious than you are."
"Were you, ma'am?--But I don't think I am unsuspicious. I was when I was
a boy--I wish we could continue children always in some things. I hate
suspicion in any body--but more than in any one else, I hate it in
myself. And yet--"
Mr. Beaumont hesitated, and his mother instantly went on with a fluent
panegyric upon the hereditary unsuspiciousness of his temper.
"But, madam, were you not saying something to me about Miss Hunter?"
"Was I?--Oh, I was merely going to say, that I was sorry you did not
know she was going this morning, that you might have taken leave of her,
poor thing!"
"Take leave of her! ma'am: I bowed to her, and wished her a good
morning, when I met her just now, and she told me she was only going to
the hall for a day. Surely no greater leave-taking was requisite, when I
am to see the lady again to-morrow, I presume."
"That is not quite so certain as she thinks, poor soul! I told her I
would send for her again to-morrow, just to keep up her spirits at
leaving me. Walk this way, Edward, under the shade of the trees, for I
am dead with the heat; and you, too, look so hot! I say I am not so sure
that it would be prudent to have her here so much, especially whilst Mr.
Palmer is with us, you know--" Mrs. Beaumont paused, as if waiting for
an assent, or a dissent, or a leading hint how to proceed: but her son
persisting in perverse silence, she was forced to repeat, "You know,
Edward, my dear, you know?"
"I don't know, indeed, ma'am."
"You don't know!"
"Faith, not I, ma'am. I don't know, for the soul of me, what Mr.
Palmer's coming has to do with Miss Hunter's going. There's room enough
in the house, I suppose, for each of them, and all of us to play our
parts. As to the rest, the young lady's coming or going is quite a
matter of indifference to me, except, of course, as far as politeness
and hospitality go. But all that I leave to you, who do the honours for
me so well."
Mrs. Beaumont's ideas were utterly thrown out of their order by this
speech, no part of which was exactly what she wished or expected: not
that any of the sentiments it contained or suggested were new to her;
but she was not prepared to meet them thus clothed in distinct words,
and in such a compact form. She had drawn up her forces for battle in an
order which this unexpectedly decisive movement of the enemy
discomfited; and a less able tactician might have been, in these
circumstances, not only embarrassed, but utterly defeated: yet, however
unprepared for this sudden shock, with admirable generalship our female
Hannibal, falling back in the centre, admitted him to advance impetuous
and triumphant, till she had him completely surrounded.
"My being of age in a few days," continued Mr. Beaumont, "will not make
any difference, surely; I depend upon it, that you will always invite
whomever you like to this house, of which I hope, my dear mother, you
will always do me the favour to be the mistress--till I marry, at least.
For my wife's feelings," added he, smiling, "I can't engage, before I
have her."
"And before we know who she is to be," said Mrs. Beaumont, carelessly.
"Time enough, as you say, to think of that. Besides, there are few women
in the world, I know scarcely one, with whom, in the relation of mother
and daughter-in-law, I should wish to live. But wherever I live, my dear
son, as long as I have a house, I hope you will always do me the justice
and the pleasure to consider yourself as its master. Heaven knows I
shall never give any other man a right to dispute with you the
sovereignty of my castle, or my cottage, whichever it may be. As to the
rest," pursued Mrs. Beaumont, "you cannot marry against my wishes, my
dear Edward; for your wishes on this, as on all other subjects, will
ever govern mine."
Her son kissed her hand with warm gratitude.
"You will not, I hope, think that I seek to prolong my regency, or to
assume undue power or influence in affairs," continued Mrs. Beaumont,
"if I hint to you in general terms what I think may contribute to your
happiness. You must afterwards decide for yourself; and are now, as you
have ever been, master, to do as you please."
"Too much--too much. I have had too much liberty, and have too little
acquired the habit of commanding my will and my passions by my reason.
Of this I am sensible. My excellent friend, Captain Walsingham, told me,
some years ago, that this was the fault of my character, and he charged
me to watch over myself; and so I have; but not so strictly, I fear, as
if he had watched along with me.----Well, ma'am, you were going to give
me some advice; I am all attention."
"My dear son, Captain Walsingham showed his judgment more, perhaps, in
pointing out causes than effects. The weakness of a fond mother, I am
sensible, did indulge you in childhood, and, perhaps, more imprudently
in youth, with an unlimited liberty to judge and act for yourself. Your
mother's system of education came, alas! more from her heart than her
head. Captain Walsingham himself cannot be more sensible of my errors
than I am."
"Captain Walsingham, believe me, mother, never mentioned this in
reproach to you. He is not a man to teach a son to see his mother's
errors--if she had any. He always spoke of you with the greatest
respect. And since I must, at my own expense, do him justice, it was, I
well remember, upon some occasion where I spoke too hastily, and
insisted upon my will in opposition to yours, madam, that Captain
Walsingham took me aside, and represented to me the fault into which my
want of command over myself had betrayed me. This he did so forcibly,
that I have never from that hour to this (I flatter myself) on any
material occasion, forgotten the impression he made on my mind. But,
madam, I interrupt you: you were going to give me your advice about--"
"No, no--no advice--no advice; you are, in my opinion, fully adequate to
the direction of your own conduct. I was merely going to suggest, that,
since you have not been accustomed to control from a mother, and since
you have, thank Heaven! a high spirit, that would sooner break than
bend, it must be essential to your happiness to have a wife of a
compliant, gentle temper; not fond of disputing the right, or attached
to her own opinions; not one who would be tenacious of rule, and
unseasonably inflexible."
"Unseasonably inflexible! Undoubtedly, ma'am. Yet I should despise a
mean-spirited wife."
"I am sure you would. But compliance that proceeds from affection, you
know, can never deserve to be called mean-spirited--nor would it so
appear to you. I am persuaded that there is a degree of fondness, of
affection, enthusiastic affection, which disposes the temper always to a
certain softness and yieldingness, which, I conceive, would be
peculiarly attractive to you, and essential to your happiness: in short,
I know your temper could not bear contradiction."
"Oh, indeed, ma'am, you are quite mistaken."
"Quite mistaken! and at the very moment he reddens with anger, because I
contradict, even in the softest, gentlest manner in my power, his
opinion of himself!"
"You don't understand me, indeed, you don't understand me," said Mr.
Beaumont, beating with his whip the leaves of a bush which was near him.
"Either you don't understand me, or I don't understand you. I am much
more able to bear contradiction than you think I am, provided it be
direct. But I do not love--what I am doing at this instant," added he,
smiling--"I don't love beating about the bush."
"Look there now!--Strange creatures you men are! So like he looks to his
poor father, who used to tell me that he loved to be contradicted, and
yet who would not, I am sure, have lived three days with any woman who
had ventured to contradict him directly. Whatever influence I obtained
in his heart, and whatever happiness we enjoyed in our union, I
attribute to my trusting to my observations on his character rather than
to his own account of himself. Therefore I may be permitted to claim
some judgment of what would suit your hereditary temper."
"Certainly, ma'am, certainly. But to come to the point at once, may I
ask this plain question--Do you, by these reflections, mean to allude to
any particular persons? Is there any woman in the world you at this
instant would wish me to marry?"
"Yes--Miss Walsingham."
Mr. Beaumont started with joyful surprise, when his mother thus
immediately pronounced the very name he wished to hear.
"You surprise and delight me, my dear mother!"
"Surprise!--How can that be?--Surely you must know my high opinion of
Miss Walsingham. But----"
"But--you added _but_----"
"There is no woman who may not be taxed with a _but_--yet it is not for
her friend to lower her merit. My only objection to her is--I shall
infallibly affront you, if I name it."
"Name it! name it! You will not affront me."
"My only objection to her then is, her superiority. She is so superior,
that, forgive me, I don't know any man, yourself not excepted, who is at
all her equal."
"I think precisely as you do, and rejoice."
"Rejoice? why there I cannot sympathize with you. I own, as a mother, I
should feel a little--a little mortified to see my son not the superior;
and when the comparison is to be daily and hourly made, and to last for
life, and all the world to see it as well as myself. I own I have a
mother's vanity. I should wish to see my son always what he has hitherto
been--the superior, and master in his own house."
Mr. Beaumont made no reply to these insinuations, but walked on in
silence; and his mother, unable to determine precisely whether the
vexation apparent in his countenance proceeded from disapprobation of
her observations, or from their working the effect she desired upon his
pride, warily waited till he should betray some decisive symptom of his
feelings. But she waited in vain--he was resolved not to speak.
"There is not a woman upon earth I should wish so much to have as a
daughter-in-law, a companion, and a friend, as Miss Walsingham. You must
be convinced," resumed Mrs. Beaumont, "so far as I am concerned, it is
the most desirable thing in the world. But I should think it my duty to
put my own feelings and wishes out of the question, and to make myself
prefer whomsoever, all things considered, my judgment tells me would
make you the happiest."
"And whom would your judgment prefer, madam?"
"Why--I am not at liberty to tell--unless I could explain all my
reasons. Indeed, I know not what to say."
"Dear madam, explain all your reasons, or we shall never understand one
another, and never come to an end of these half explanations."
Here they were interrupted by seeing Mr. Twigg, a courtly clergyman,
coming towards them. Beaumont was obliged to endure his tiresome
flattery upon the beauties of Beaumont Park, and upon the judicious
improvements that were making, had been made, and would, no doubt, be
very soon made. Mrs. Beaumont, at last, relieved his or her own
impatience by commissioning Mr. Twigg to walk round the improvements
by himself. By himself she insisted it should be, that she might have
his unbiassed judgment upon the two lines which had been marked for
the new belt or screen; and he was also to decide whether they should
call it a belt or a screen.--Honoured with this commission, he struck
off into the walk to which Mrs. Beaumont pointed, and began his
solitary progress.
Mr. Beaumont then urged his mother to go on with her explanation. Mrs.
Beaumont thought that she could not hazard much by flattering the vanity
of a man on that subject on which perhaps it is most easily flattered;
therefore, after sufficient delicacy of circumlocution, she informed her
son that there was a young lady who was actually dying for love of him;
whose extreme fondness would make her live but in him; and who, besides
having a natural ductility of character, and softness of temper, was
perfectly free from any formidable superiority of intellect, and had the
most exalted opinion of his capacity, as well as of his character and
accomplishments; in short, such an enthusiastic adoration, as would
induce that belief in the infallibility of a husband, which must secure
to him the fullest enjoyment of domestic peace, power, and pre-eminence.
Mr. Beaumont seemed less moved than his mother had calculated that the
vanity of man must be, by such a declaration--discovery it could not be
called. "If I am to take all this seriously, madam," replied he,
laughing, "and if, _au pied de la lettre_ my vanity is to believe that
this damsel is dying for love; yet, still I have so little chivalry in
my nature, that I cannot understand how it would add to my happiness to
sacrifice myself to save her life. That I am well suited to her, I am as
willing as vanity can make me to believe; but how is it to be proved
that the lady is suited to me?"
"My dear, these things do not admit of logical proof."
"Well--moral, sentimental, or any kind of proof you please."
"Have you no pity? and is not pity akin to love?"
"Akin! Oh, yes, ma'am, it is akin; but for that very reason it may not
be a friend--relations, you know, in these days, are as often enemies
as friends."
"Vile pun! far-fetched quibble!--provoking boy!--But I see you are not
in a humour to be serious, so I will take another time to talk to you of
this affair."
"Now or never, ma'am, for mercy's sake!"
"Mercy's sake! you who show none--Ah! this is the way with you men; all
this is play to you, but death to us."
"Death! dear ma'am; ladies, you know as well as I do, don't die of love
in these days--you would not make a fool of your son."
"I could not; nor could any other woman--that is clear: but amongst us,
I am afraid we have, undesignedly indeed, but irremediably, made a fool
of this poor confiding girl."
"But, ma'am, in whom did she confide? not in me, I'll swear. I have
nothing to reproach myself with, thank God!--My conscience is clear; I
have been as ungallant as possible. I have been as cruel as my nature
would permit. I am sure no one can charge me with giving false
promises--I scarcely speak--nor false hopes, for I scarcely look at the
young lady."
"So, then, you know who the young lady in question is?"
"Perhaps I ought not to pretend to know."
"That would be useless affectation, alas! for I fear many know, and have
seen, and heard, much more than you have--or I either."
Here Mrs. Beaumont observed that her son's colour changed, and that he
suddenly grew serious: aware that she had now touched upon the right
chord, she struck it again "with a master's hand and prophet's fire."
She declared that all the world took it for granted that Miss Hunter was
to be married to Mr. Beaumont; that it was talked of every where; that
she was asked continually by her correspondents, when the marriage was
to take place?--in confirmation of which assertion, she produced bundles
of letters from her pockets, from Mrs. and Miss, and from Lady This, and
Lady That.
"Nay," continued she, "if it were confined even to the circle of one's
private friends and acquaintance, I should not so much mind it, for one
might contradict, and have it contradicted, and one might send the poor
thing away to some watering-place, and the report might die away, as
reports do--sometimes. But all that sort of thing it is too late to
think of now--for the thing is public! quite public! got into the
newspapers! Here's a paragraph I cut out this very morning from my
paper, lest the poor girl should see it. The other day, I believe you
saw it yourself, there was something of the same sort. 'We hear that, as
soon as he comes of age, Mr. Beaumont, of Beaumont Park, is to lead to
the altar of Hymen, Miss Hunter, sister to Sir John Hunter, of
Devonshire.' Well,--after you left the room, Albina took up the paper
you had been reading; and when she saw this paragraph, I thought she
would have dropped. I did not know what to do. Whatever I could say, you
know, would only make it worse. I tried to turn it off, and talked of
twenty things; but it would not do--no, no, it is too serious for that:
well, though I believe she would rather have put her hand in the fire,
she had the courage to speak to me about it herself."
"And what did she say, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Beaumont, eagerly.
"Poor simple creature! she had but one idea--that you had seen it! that
she would not for the world you had read it. What would you think of
her--she should never be able to meet you again--What could she do? It
must be contradicted--somebody must contradict it. Then she worried me
to have it contradicted in the papers. I told her I did not well know
how that could be done, and urged that it would be much more prudent not
to fix attention upon the parties by more paragraphs. But she was _not_
in a state to think of prudence;--_no_. What would you think was the
only idea in her mind?--If I would not write, she would write that
minute herself, and sign her name. This, and a thousand wild things, she
said, till I was forced to be quite angry, and to tell her she must be
governed by those who had more discretion than herself. Then she was so
subdued, so ashamed--really my heart bled for her, even whilst I scolded
her. But it is quite necessary to be harsh with her; for she has no more
foresight, nor art, nor command of herself sometimes, than a child of
five years old. I assure you, I was rejoiced to get her away before Mr.
Palmer came, for a new eye coming into a family sees so much one
wouldn't wish to be seen. You know it would be terrible to have the poor
young creature _commit_ and expose herself to a stranger so early in
life. Indeed, as it is, I am persuaded no one will ever think of
marrying her, if you do not.----In worldly prudence--but of that she has
not an atom--in worldly prudence she might do better, or as well,
certainly; for her fortune will be very considerable. Sir John means to
add to it, when he gets the Wigram estate; and the old uncle, Wigram,
can't live for ever. But poor Albina, I dare swear, does not know what
fortune she is to have, nor what you have. Love! love! all for
love!--and all in vain. She is certainly very much to be pitied."
Longer might Mrs. Beaumont have continued in monologue, without danger
of interruption from her son, who stood resolved to hear the utmost sum
of all that she should say on the subject. Never interrupting her, he
only filled certain pauses, that seemed expectant of reply, with the
phrases--"I am very sorry, indeed, ma'am"--and, "Really, ma'am, it is
out of my power to help it." But Mrs. Beaumont observed that the latter
phrase had been omitted as she proceeded--and "_I am very sorry indeed,
ma'am,_" he repeated less as words of course, and more and more as if
they came from the heart. Having so far, successfully, as she thought,
worked upon her son's good-nature, and seeing her daughter through the
trees coming towards them, she abruptly exclaimed, "Promise me, at all
events, dearest Edward, I conjure you; promise me that you will not make
proposals _any where else_, without letting me know of it
beforehand,--and give me time," joining her hands in a supplicating
attitude, "give me but a few weeks, to prepare my poor little Albina for
this sad, sad stroke!"
"I promise you, madam, that I will not, directly or indirectly, make an
offer of my hand or heart to any woman, without previously letting you
know my determination. And as for a few weeks, more or less--my mother,
surely, need not supplicate, but simply let me know her wishes--even
without her reasons, they would have been sufficient with me. Do I
satisfy you now, madam?"
"More than satisfy--as you ever do, ever will, my dear son."
"But you will require no more on this subject--I must be left master
of myself."
"Indubitably--certainly--master of yourself--most certainly--of
course."
Mr. Beaumont was going to add something beginning with, "It is better,
at once, to tell you, that I can never--" But Mrs. Beaumont stopped him
with, "Hush! my dear, hush! not a word more, for here is Amelia, and I
cannot talk on this subject before her, you know.----My beloved Amelia,
how languid you look! I fear that, to please me, you have taken too long
a walk; and Mr. Palmer won't see you in your best looks, after
all.--What note is that you have in your hand?"
"A note from Miss Walsingham, mamma."
"Oh! the chickenpox! take caer! letters, notes, every thing may convey
the infection," cried Mrs. Beaumont, snatching the paper. "How could
dearest Miss Walsingham be so giddy as to answer my note, after what I
said in my postscript!--How did this note come?"
"By the little postboy, mamma; I met him at the porter's lodge."
"But what is all this strange thing?" said Mrs. Beaumont, after having
read the note twice over.--It contained a certificate from the parish
minister and churchwardens, apothecary, and surgeon, bearing witness,
one and all, that there was no individual, man, woman, or child, in the
parish, or within three miles of Walsingham House, who was even under
any suspicion of having the chickenpox.
"My father desires me to send Mrs. Beaumont the enclosed _clean bill of
health_--by which she will find that we need be no longer subject to
quarantine; and, unless some other reasons prevent our having the
pleasure of seeing her, we may hope soon that she will favour us with
her long promised visit.
"Yours, sincerely,
"MARIANNE WALSINGHAM."
"I am delighted," said Mrs. Beaumont, "to find it was a false report,
and that we shall not be kept, the Lord knows how long, away from the
dear Walsinghams."
"Then we can go to them to-morrow, can't we, mamma? And I will write,
and say so, shall I?" said Amelia.
"No need to write, my dear; if we promise for any particular day, and
are not able to go, that seems unkind, and is taken ill, you see. And as
Mr. Palmer is coming, we can't leave him."
"But he will go with us surely," said Mr. Beaumont. "The Walsinghams are
as much his relations as we are; and if he comes two hundred miles to
see us, he will, surely, go seven to see them."
"True," said Mrs. Beaumont; "but it is civil and kind to leave him to
fix his own day, poor old gentleman. After so long a journey, we must
allow him some rest. Consider, he can't go galloping about as you do,
dear Edward."
"But," said Amelia, "as the Walsinghams know he is to be in the country,
they will of course come to see him immediately."
"How do they know he is to be in the country?"
"I thought--I took it for granted, you told them so, mamma, when you
wrote about not going to Walsingham House, on Mr. Walsingham's
birthday."
"No, my dear; I was so full of the chickenpox, and terror about you, I
could think of nothing else."
"Thank you, dear mother--but now that is out of the question, I had best
write a line by the return of the postboy, to say, that Mr. Palmer is to
be here to-day, and that he stays only one week."
"Certainly! love--but let me write about it, for I have particular
reasons. And, my dear, now we are by ourselves, let me caution you not
to mention that Mr. Palmer can stay but one week: in the first place it
is uncivil to him, for we are not sure of it, and it is like driving him
away; and in the next place, there are reasons I can't explain to you,
that know so little of the world, my dear Amelia--but, in general, it is
always foolish to mention things."
"Always foolish to mention things!" cried Mr. Beaumont, smiling.
"Of this sort, I mean," said Mrs. Beaumont, a little disconcerted.
"Of what sort?" persisted her son.
"Hush! my dear; here's the postboy and the ass."
"Any letters, my good little boy? Any letters for me?"
"I has, madam, a many for the house. I does not know for who--the bag
will tell," said the boy, unstrapping the bag from his shoulders.
"Give it to me, then," said Mrs. Beaumont: "I am anxious for letters
always." She was peculiarly anxious now to open the post-bag, to put a
stop to a conversation which did not please her. Whilst seated on a
rustic seat, under a spreading beech, our heroine, with her accustomed
looks of mystery, examined the seals of her numerous and important
letters, to ascertain whether they had been opened at the post-office,
or whether their folds might have been pervious to any prying eye. Her
son tore the covers off the newspapers; and, as he unfolded one,
Amelia leaned upon his shoulder, and whispered softly, "Any news of
the fleet, brother?"
Mrs. Beaumont, than whom Fine-ear himself had not quicker auditory
nerves, especially for indiscreet whispers, looked up from her letters,
and examined, unperceived, the countenance of Amelia, who was searching
with eagerness the columns of the paper. As Mr. Beaumont turned over the
leaf, Amelia looked up, and, seeing her mother's eyes fixed upon her,
coloured; and from want of presence of mind to invent any thing better
to say, asked if her mother wished to have the papers?
"No," said Mrs. Beaumont, coldly, "not I, Amelia; I am not such a
politician as you are grown."
Amelia withdrew her attention, or at least her eyes, from the paper, and
had recourse to the beech-tree, the beautiful foliage of which she
studied with profound attention.
"God bless me! here's news! news of the fleet!" cried Beaumont, turning
suddenly to his sister; and then recollecting himself, to his mother.
"Ma'am, they say there has been a great engagement between the French
and Spaniards, and the English--particulars not known yet: but, they
say, ten sail of the French line are taken, and four Spaniards blown up,
and six Spanish men-of-war disabled, and a treasure-ship taken.
Walsingham must have been in the engagement--My horse!--I'll gallop over
this minute, and know from the Walsinghams if they have seen the papers,
and if there's any thing more about it in their papers."
"Gallop! my dearest Edward," said his mother, standing in his path; "but
you don't consider Mr. Palmer--"
"Damn Mr. Palmer! I beg your pardon, mother--I mean no harm to the old
gentleman--friend of my father's--great respect for him--I'll be back by
dinner-time, back ready to receive him--he can't be here till six--only
five by me, now! Ma'am, I shall have more than time to dress, too, cool
as a cucumber, ready to receive the good old fellow."
"In one short hour, my dear!--seven miles to Walsingham House, and seven
back again, and all the time you will waste there, and to dress
too--only consider!"
"I do consider, ma'am; and have considered every thing in the world. My
horse will carry me there and back in fifty minutes, easily, and five to
spare, I'll be bound. I sha'n't light--so where's the paper? I'm off."
"Well--order your horse, and leave me the paper, at least, while he is
getting ready. Ride by this way, and you will find us here--where is
this famous paragraph?"
Beaumont drew the paper crumpled from the pocket into which he had
thrust it--ran off for his horse, and quickly returned mounted. "Give me
the paper, good friends!--I'm off."
"Away, then, my dear; since you will heat yourself for nothing. But only
let me point out to you," said she, holding the paper fast whilst she
held it up to him, "that this whole report rests on no authority
whatever; not a word of it in the gazette; not a line from the
admiralty; no official account; no bulletin; no credit given to the
rumour at Lloyd's; stocks the same.--And how did the news come? Not even
the news-writer pretends it came through any the least respectable
channel. A frigate in latitude the Lord knows what! saw a fleet in a fog
--might be Spanish--might be French--might be English--spoke another
frigate some days afterwards, who heard firing: well--firing says
nothing. But the frigate turns this firing into an engagement, and a
victory; and presently communicates the news to a collier, and the
collier tells another collier, and so it goes up the Thames, to some
wonder-maker, standing agape for a paragraph, to secure a dinner. To the
press the news goes, just as our paper is coming out; and to be sure we
shall have a contradiction and an apology in our next."
"Well, ma'am; but I will ask Mr. Walsingham what he thinks, and show him
the paper."
"Do, if you like it, my dear; I never control you; but don't overheat
yourself for nothing. What can Mr. Walsingham, or all the Walsinghams in
the world, tell more than we can? and as to showing him the paper, you
know he takes the same paper. But don't let me detain you.--Amelia, who
is that coming through the gate? Mr. Palmer's servant, I protest!"
"Well; it can't be, I see!" said Beaumont, dismounting.
"Take away your master's horse--quick--quick!--Amelia, my love, to
dress! I must have you ready to receive your godfather's blessing.
Consider, Mr. Palmer was your father's earliest friend; and besides, he
is a relation, though distant; and it is always a good and prudent thing
to keep up relationships. Many a fine estate has come from very distant
relations most unexpectedly. And even independently of all
relationships, when friendships are properly cultivated, there's no
knowing to what they may lead;--not that I look to any thing of that
sort here. But before you see Mr. Palmer, just as we are walking home,
and quite to ourselves, let me give you some leading hints about this
old gentleman's character, which I have gathered, no matter how, for
your advantage, my dear children. He is a humourist, and must not be
opposed in any of his oddities: he is used to be waited upon, and
attended to, as all these men are who have lived in the West Indies. A
_bon vivant_, of course. Edward, produce your best wines--the pilau and
currie, and all that, leave to me. I had special notice of his love for
a john-doree, and a john-doree I have for him. But now I am going to
give you the master-key to his heart. Like all men who have made great
fortunes, he loves to feel continually the importance his wealth
confers; he loves to feel that wealth does every thing; is superior to
every thing--to birth and titles especially: it is his pride to think
himself, though a commoner, far above any man who condescends to take a
title. He hates persons of quality; therefore, whilst he is here, not a
word in favour of any titled person. Forget the whole house of
peers--send them all to Coventry--all to Coventry, remember.--And, now
you have the key to his heart, go and dress, to be ready for him."
Having thus given her private instructions, and advanced her secret
plans, Mrs. Beaumont repaired to her toilet, well satisfied with her
morning's work.
CHAPTER V.
"Chi mi fa piu carezze che non sole;
O m'ha ingannato, o ingannar me vuole."
"By St. George, there's nothing like Old England for comfort!" cried Mr.
Palmer, settling himself in his arm-chair in the evening; "nothing after
all in any part of the known world, like Old England for comfort. Why,
madam, there's not another people in the universe that have in any of
their languages a name even for comfort. The French have been forced to
borrow it; but now they have got it, they don't know how to use it, nor
even how to pronounce it, poor devils! Well, there's nothing like Old
England for comfort."
"Ah! nothing like Old England for comfort!" echoed Mrs. Beaumont, in a
sentimental tone, though at that instant her thoughts were far distant
from her words; for this declaration of his love for Old England alarmed
her with the notion that he might change his mind about returning
immediately to Jamaica, and that he might take root again and flourish
for years to come in his native soil--perhaps in her neighbourhood, to
the bane of all her favourite projects. What would become of her scheme
of marrying Amelia to the baronet, and her son to the docile Albina?
What would become of the scheme of preventing him from being acquainted
with the Walsinghams? For a week it might be practicable to keep them
asunder by _policising_, but this could never be effected if he were to
settle, or even to make any long stay, in the country. The Walsinghams
would be affronted, and then what would become of their interest in the
county? Her son could not be returned without that. And, worse than all
the rest, Mr. Palmer might take a fancy to see these Walsinghams, who
were as nearly related to him as the Beaumonts; and seeing, he might
prefer, and preferring, he might possibly leave half, nay, perhaps the
whole, of his large fortune to them,--and thus all her hopes and
projects might at once be frustrated. Little aware of the long and
perplexing trains of ideas, which his honest ejaculation in favour of
his native country had raised, Mr. Palmer went on with his own
comfortable thoughts.
"And of all the comforts our native land affords, I know of none so
grateful to the heart," continued he, "as good friends, which are to be
found nowhere else in such perfection. A man at my time of life misses
many an old friend on his return to his native country; but then he sees
them still in their representatives, and loves them again in their
children. Mr. Beaumont looked at me at that instant, so like his
father--he is the image of what my friend was, when I first knew him."
"I am rejoiced you see the likeness," said Mrs. Beaumont. "Amelia, my
dear, pour out the coffee."
"And Miss Beaumont, too, has just his expression of countenance, which
surprises me more, in her delicate features. Upon my word, I have reason
to be proud of my god-daughter, as far as appearances go; and with
English women, appearances, fair as they may be, seldom are even so good
as the truth. There's her father's smile again for me--young lady, if
that smile deceives, there's no truth in woman."
"Do not you find our coffee here very bad, compared with what you have
been used to abroad?" said Mrs. Beaumont.
"I do rejoice to find myself here quiet in the country," continued Mr.
Palmer, without hearing the lady's question; "nothing after all like a
good old English family, where every thing speaks plenty and
hospitality, without waste or ostentation; and where you are received
with a hearty welcome, without compliments; and let do just as you
please, without form, and without being persecuted by politeness."
This was the image of an English country family impressed early upon the
good old gentleman's imagination, which had remained there fresh and
unchanged since the days of his youth; and he now took it for granted
that he should see it realized in the family of his late friend.
"I was afraid," resumed Mrs. Beaumont, "that after being so long
accustomed to a West-Indian life, you would find many things unpleasant
to your feelings here. But you are so kind, so accommodating. Is it
really possible that you have not, since your return to England,
experienced any uncomfortable sensations, suffered any serious injury to
your health, my dear sir, from the damps and chills of our climate?"
"Why, now I think of it, I have--I have a caugh," said Mr.
Palmer, coughing.
Mrs. Beaumont officiously shut the window.
"I do acknowledge that England is not quite so superior to all other
countries in her climate as in every thing else: yet I don't 'damn the
climate like a lord.' At my time of life, a man must expect to be a
valetudinarian, and it would be unjust to blame one's native climate
for that. But a man of seventy-five must live where he can, not where
he will; and Dr. Y---- tells me that I can live nowhere but in the
West Indies."
"Oh, sir, never mind Dr. Y----," exclaimed young Beaumont: "live with us
in England. Many Englishmen live to a great age surely, let people say
what they will of the climate."
"But, perhaps, brother," interposed Amelia, "those who, like Mr. Palmer,
have lived much in a warm climate, might find a return to a cold country
dangerous; and we should consider what is best for him, not merely what
is most agreeable to ourselves."
"True, my dearest Amelia," said Mrs. Beaumont; "and to be sure, Dr.
Y---- is one of our most skilful physicians. I could not be so rash or
so selfish as to set my private wishes, or my private opinion, in
opposition to Dr. Y----'s advice; but surely, my dear sir, you won't let
one physician, however eminent, send you away from us all, and banish
you again from England? We have a very clever physician here, Dr.
Wheeler, in whom I have the greatest confidence. In my own case, I
confess, I should prefer his judgment to any of the London fashionable
physicians, who are so fine and so hurried, that they can't take time to
study one's particular constitution, and hear all one has to say to
them. Now that is Wheeler's great excellence--and I should so like to
hear his opinion. I am sure, if he gives it against me, I will not say a
word more: if he decide for Jamaica, I may be vexed, but I should make
it a point of conscience to submit, and not to urge my good friend to
stay in England at his own peril. Happy they who can live where they
please, and whose fortune puts it in their power to purchase any
climate, and to combine the comforts and luxuries of all countries!"
Nothing more was said upon the subject: Mrs. Beaumont turned the
conversation to the different luxuries of the West and East Indies. Mr.
Palmer, fatigued by his journey, retired early to rest, little dreaming
that his kind hostess waked, whilst he slept, for the purpose of
preparing a physician to give a proper opinion upon his case. Mrs.
Beaumont left a note to her favourite Dr. Wheeler, to be sent very early
in the morning. As if by accident, the doctor dropped in at breakfast
time, and Mrs. Beaumont declared that it was the luckiest chance
imaginable, that he should happen to call just when she was wishing to
see him. When the question in debate was stated to him, he, with
becoming gravity of countenance and suavity of manner, entered into a
discussion upon the effect of hot and cold climates upon the solids and
fluids, and nervous system in general; then upon English constitutions
in particular; and, lastly, upon _idiosyncrasies_.
This last word cost Mr. Palmer half his breakfast: on hearing it he
turned down his cup with a profound sigh, and pushed his plate from him;
indications which did not escape the physician's demure eye. Gaining
confidence from the weakness of the patient, Dr. Wheeler now boldly
pronounced, that, in his opinion, any gentleman who, after having
habituated himself long to a hot climate, as Jamaica, for instance,
should come late in life to reside in a colder climate, as England, for
example, must run very great hazard indeed--nay, he could almost venture
to predict, would fall a victim to the sudden tension of the lax fibres.
Though a man of sound good sense in most things, Mr. Palmer's weakness
was, on medical subjects, as great as his ignorance; his superstitious
faith in physicians was as implicit as either Dr. Wheeler or Mrs.
Beaumont could desire.
"Then," said Mr. Palmer, with a sigh still deeper than the first--for
the first was for himself, and the second for his country--"then
England, Old England! farewell for ever! All my judges pronounce
sentence of transportation upon me!"
Mr. Beaumont and Amelia, in eager and persuasive tones of remonstrance
and expostulation, at once addressed the doctor, to obtain a mitigation
or suspension of his sentence. Dr. Wheeler, albeit unused to the
imperative mood, reiterated his _dictum_. Though little accustomed to
hold his opinion against the arguments or the wishes of the rich and
fair, he, upon this occasion, stood his ground against Miss and Mr.
Beaumont wonderfully well for nearly five minutes; till, to his utter
perplexity and dismay, he saw Mrs. Beaumont appear amongst his
assailants.
"Well, I said I would submit, and not say a word, if Dr. Wheeler was
against me," she began; "but I cannot sit by silent: I must protest
against this cruel, cruel decree, so contrary too to what I hoped and
expected would be Dr. Wheeler's opinion."
Poor Dr. Wheeler twinkled and seemed as if he would have rubbed his
eyes, not sure whether he was awake or in a dream. In his perplexity,
he apprehended that he had misunderstood Mrs. Beaumont's note, and he
now prepared to make his way round again through the solids and the
fluids, and the whole nervous system, till, by favour of
_idiosyncrasy_, he hoped to get out of his difficulty, and to allow Mr.
Palmer to remain on British ground. Mrs. Beaumont's face, in spite of
her powers of simulation, lengthened and lengthened, and darkened and
darkened, as he proceeded in his recantation; but, when the exception
to the general axiom was fairly made out, and a clear permit to remain
in England granted, by such high medical authority, she forced a smile,
and joined loudly in the general congratulations. Whilst her son was
triumphing and shaking hands with Mr. Palmer, she slipped down stairs
after Dr. Wheeler.
"Ah, doctor! What have you done! Ruined me! ruined me! Didn't you
read my note? Didn't you _understand_ it?--I thought a word to the
wise was enough."
"Why!--then it was as I understood it at first? So I thought; but then I
fancied I must be mistaken afterwards; for when I expected support, my
dear madam, you opposed my opinion in favour of Jamaica more warmly than
any one, and what was I to think?"
"To think! Oh, my dear doctor, you might have guessed that was only a
sham opposition."
"But, my dear ma'am," cried Dr. Wheeler, who, though the mildest of men,
was now worked up to something like indignation, "my dear ma'am--sham
upon sham is too much for any man!"
The doctor went down stairs murmuring. Thus, by excess of hypocrisy, our
heroine disgusted even her own adherents, in which she has the honour to
resemble some of the most wily politicians famous in English history.
But she was too wise ever to let any one who could serve or injure her
go discontented out of her presence.
"My dear, good Dr. Wheeler, I never saw you angry before. Come, come,"
cried Mrs. Beaumont, sliding a _douceur_ into his hand, "friends must
not be vexed for trifles; it was only a mistake _de part et d'autre_,
and you'll return here to-morrow, in your way home, and breakfast with
us; and now we understand one another. And," added she, in a whisper,
"we can talk over things, and have your cool judgment best, when only
you, and I, and Mr. Palmer, are present. You comprehend."
Those who practise many manoeuvres, and carry on many intrigues at the
same time, have this advantage, that if one fails, the success of
another compensates for the disappointment. However she might have been
vexed by this slight _contre-temps_ with Dr. Wheeler, Mrs. Beaumont had
ample compensation of different sorts this day; some due to her own
exertions, some owing to accident. Her own exertions prevented her dear
Albina Hunter from returning; for Mrs. Beaumont never sent the promised
carriage--only a note of apology--a nail had run into one of the
coach-horse's feet. To accident she owed that the Walsinghams were not
at home when her son galloped over to see them the next morning, and to
inquire what news from Captain Walsingham. That day's paper also brought
a contradiction of the report of the engagement and victory; so that
Mrs. Beaumont's apprehensions on this subject were allayed; and she had
no doubt that, by proper management, with a sufficient number of notes
and messages, misunderstandings, lame horses, and crossings upon the
road, she might actually get through the week without letting the
Walsinghams see Mr. Palmer; or at least without more than a _vis_, or a
morning visit, from which no great danger could be apprehended. "Few,
indeed, have so much character," thought she, "or so much dexterity in
showing it, as to make a dangerous impression in the course of a formal
morning visit."
CHAPTER VI.
"Ah! c'est mentir tant soit peu; j'en conviens;
C'est un grand mal--mais il produit un bien."
VOLTAIRE.
The third day went off still more successfully. Dr. Wheeler called at
breakfast, frightened Mr. Palmer out of his senses about his health, and
convinced him that his life depended upon his immediate return to the
climate of Jamaica:--so this point was decided.
Mrs. Beaumont, calculating justly that the Walsinghams would return Mr.
Beaumont's visit, and come to pay their respects to Mr. Palmer this
morning, settled, as soon as breakfast was over, a plan of operations
which should keep Mr. Palmer out till dinner-time. He must see the
charming drive which her son had made round his improvements; and she
must have the pleasure of showing it to him herself; and she assured him
that he might trust to her driving.
So into Mrs. Beaumont's garden-chair he got; and when she had him fairly
prisoner, she carried him far away from all danger of intruding
visitors. It may readily be supposed that our heroine made good use of
the five or six hours' leisure for manoeuvring which she thus secured.
So frank and cordial was this simple-hearted old man, any one but Mrs.
Beaumont would have thought that with him no manoeuvring was necessary;
that she need only to have trusted to his friendship and generosity, and
have directly told him her wishes. He was so prepossessed in her favour,
as being the widow of his friend, that he was almost incapable of
suspecting her of any unhandsome conduct; besides, having had little
converse with modern ladies, his imagination was so prepossessed with
the old-fashioned picture of a respectable widow lady and guardian
mother, that he took it for granted Mrs. Beaumont was just like one of
the good matrons of former times, like Lady Bountiful, or Lady Lizard;
and, as such, he spoke to her of her family concerns, in all the
openness of a heart which knew no guile.
"Now, my good Mistress Beaumont, you must look upon me just as my friend
the colonel would have done; as a man, who has your family interests at
heart just as much as if I were one of yourselves. And let me in to all
your little affairs, and trust me with all your little plans, and let us
talk over things together, and settle how every thing can be done for
the best for the young people. You know, I have no relations in the
world but your family and the Walsinghams, of whom, by-the-bye, I know
nothing. No one living has any claim upon me: I can leave or give my own
just as I please; and you and yours are, of course, my first
objects--and for the how, and the what, and the when, I must consult
you; and only beg you to keep it in mind, that I would as soon _give_ as
_bequeath_, and rather; for as to what a man leaves to his friends, he
can only have the satisfaction of thinking that they will be the better
for him after he is dead and gone, which is but cold comfort; but what
he gives he has the warm comfort of seeing them enjoy whilst he is alive
with them."
"Such a generous sentiment!" exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, "and so unlike
persons in general who have large fortunes at their disposal! I feel so
much obliged, so excessively--"
"Not at all, not at all, not at all--no more of that, no more of that,
my good lady. The colonel and I were friends; so there can be no
obligation between us, nor thanks, nor speeches. But, just as if you
were talking to yourself, tell me your mind. And if there are any little
embarrassments that the son may want to clear off on coming of age; or
if there's any thing wanting to your jointure, my dear madam; or if
there should be any marriages in the wind, where a few thousands, more
or less, might be the making or the breaking of a heart;--let me hear
about it all: and do me the justice to let me have the pleasure of
making the young folks, and the old folks too, happy their own way; for
I have no notion of insisting on all people being happy my way--no, no!
I've too much English liberty in me for that; and I'm sure, you, my good
lady, are as great a foe as I am to all family managements and
mysteries, where the old don't know what the young do, nor the young
what the old think. No, no--that's all nonsense and French convent
work--nothing like a good old English family. So, my dear Mistress
Beaumont, out with it all, and make me one of yourselves, free of the
family from this minute. Here's my hand and heart upon it--an old friend
may presume so far."
This frankness would have opened any heart except Mrs. Beaumont's; but
it is the misfortune of artful people that they cannot believe others to
be artless: either they think simplicity of character folly; or else
they suspect that openness is only affected, as a bait to draw them into
snares. Our heroine balanced for a moment between these two notions. She
could not believe Mr. Palmer to be an absolute fool--no; his having made
such a large fortune forbad that thought. Then he must have thrown
himself thus open merely to _try her_, and to come at the knowledge of
debts and embarrassments, which, if brought to light, would lower his
opinion of the prudence of the family.
"My excellent friend, to be candid with you," she began, "there is no
need of your generosity at present, to relieve my son from any
embarrassments; for I know that he has no debts whatever. And I am
confident he will make my jointure every thing, and more than every
thing, I could desire. And, as to marriages, my Amelia is so young,
there's time enough to consider."
"True, true; and she does well to take time to consider. But though I
don't understand these matters much, she looks mightily like the notion
I have of a girl that's a little bit in love."
"In love! Oh, my dear sir! you don't say so--in love?"
"Why, I suppose I should not say _in love_; there's some other way of
expressing it come into fashion since my time, no doubt. And even then,
I know that was not to be said of a young lady, till signing and sealing
day; but it popped out, and I can't get it back again, so you must even
let it pass. And what harm? for you know, madam, without love, what
would become of the world?--though I was jilted once and away, I
acknowledge--but forgive and forget. I don't like the girl a whit the
worse for being a little bit tender-hearted. For I'm morally certain,
even from the little I have heard her say, and from the way she has been
brought up, and from her being her father's daughter, and her mother's,
madam, she could not fix her affections on any one that would not do
honour to her choice, or--which is only saying the same thing in other
words--that you and I should not approve."
"Ah! there's the thing!" said Mrs. Beaumont, sighing.
"Why now I took it into my head from a blush I saw this morning, though
how I came to notice it, I don't know; for to my recollection I have not
noticed a girl's blushing before these twenty years--but, to be sure,
here I have as near an interest, almost, as if she were my own
daughter--I say, from the blush I saw this morning, when young Beaumont
was talking of the gallop he had taken to inquire about Captain
Walsingham, I took it into my head that he was the happy man."
"Oh! my dear sir, he never made any proposals for Amelia." That
was strictly true. "Nor, I am sure, ever thought of it, as far as
ever I heard."
The saving clause of "_as far as ever I heard_," prevented this last
assertion from coming under that description of falsehoods denominated
downright lies.
"Indeed, how could he?" pursued Mrs. Beaumont, "for you know he is no
match for Amelia; he has nothing in the world but his commission. No;
there never was any proposal from that quarter; and, of course, it is
impossible my daughter could think of a man who has no thoughts of her."
"You know best, my good madam; I merely spoke at random. I'm the worst
guesser in the world, especially on these matters: what people tell me,
I know; and neither more not less."
Mrs. Beaumont rejoiced in the simplicity of her companion. "Then, my
good friend, it is but fair to tell you," said she, "that Amelia has
an admirer."
"A lover, hey! Who?"
"Ah, there's the misfortune; it is a thing I never can consent to."
"Ha! then now it is out! There's the reason the girl blushes, and is so
absent at times."
A plan now occurred to Mrs. Beaumont's scheming imagination which she
thought the master-piece of policy. She determined to account for
whatever symptoms of embarrassment Mr. Palmer might observe in her
daughter, by attributing them to a thwarted attachment for Sir John
Hunter; and Mrs. Beaumont resolved to make a merit to Mr. Palmer of
opposing this match because the lover was a baronet, and she thought
that Mr. Palmer would be pleased by her showing an aversion to the
thoughts of her daughter's marrying _a sprig of quality_. This
ingenious method of paying her court to her open-hearted friend, at the
expense equally of truth and of her daughter, she executed with her
usual address.
"Well, I'm heartily glad, my dear good madam, to find that you have the
same prejudices against sprigs of quality that I have. One good commoner
is worth a million of them to my mind. So I told a puppy of a nephew of
mine, who would go and buy a baronetage, forsooth--disinherited him! but
he is dead, poor puppy."
"Poor young man! But this is all new to me," said Mrs. Beaumont, with
well-feigned surprise.
"But did not you know, my dear madam, that I had a nephew, and that
he is dead?"
"Oh, yes; but not the particulars."
"No; the particulars I never talk of--not to the poor dog's credit. It's
well he's dead, for if he had lived, I am afraid I should have forgiven
him. No, no, I never would. But there is no use in thinking any more of
that. What were we saying? Oh, about your Amelia--our Amelia, let me
call her. If she is so much attached, poor thing, to this man, though he
is a baronet, which I own is against him to my fancy, yet it is to be
presumed he has good qualities to balance that, since she values him;
and young people must be young, and have their little foolish
prepossessions for title, and so forth. To be sure, I should have
thought my friend's daughter above that, of such a good family as she
is, and with such good sense as she inherits too. But we have all our
foibles, I suppose. And since it is so with Amelia, why do let me see
this baronet-swain of hers, and let me try what good I can find out in
him, and let me bring myself, if I can, over my prejudices. And then
you, my dear madam, so good and kind a mother as you are, will make an
effort too on your part; for we must see the girl happy, if it is not
out of all sense and reason. And if the man be worthy of her, it is not
his fault that he is a sprig of quality; and we must forgive and forget,
and give our consent, my dear Mrs. Beaumont."
"And would you ever give your consent to her marrying Sir John Hunter?"
cried Mrs. Beaumont, breathless with amazement, and for a moment thrown
off her guard so as to speak quite naturally. The sudden difference in
her tone and manner struck even her unsuspicious companion, and he
attributed it to displeasure at this last hint.
"Why, my very dear good friend's wife, forgive me," said he, "for this
interference, and for, as it seems, opposing your opinion about your
daughter's marriage, which no man has a right to do--but if you ask me
plump whether I could forgive her for marrying Sir John Hunter, I
answer, for I can speak nothing but the truth, I would, if he is a
worthy man."
"I thought," said Mrs. Beaumont, astonished, "you disinherited your own
nephew, because he took a baronet's title against your will."
"Bless you! no, my dear madam--that did displease me, to be sure--but
that was the least cause of displeasure I had. I let the world fancy and
say what they would, rather than bring faults to light.--But no more
about that."
"But did not you take an oath that you would never leave a shilling of
your fortune to any _sprig of quality?_"
"Never! my dearest madam! never," cried Mr. Palmer, laughing. "Never was
such a gander. See what oaths people put into one's mouth."
"And what lies the world tells," said Mrs. Beaumont.
"And believes," said Mr. Palmer, with a sly smile.
The surprise that Mrs. Beaumont felt was mixed with a strange and rapid
confusion of other sentiments, regret for having wasted such a quantity
of contrivance and manoeuvring against an imaginary difficulty. All this
arose from her too easy belief of _secret underhand information_.
Through the maze of artifice in which she had involved affairs, she
now, with some difficulty, perceived that plain truth would have served
her purpose better. But regret for the past was not in the least mixed
with any thing like remorse or penitence; on the contrary, she
instantly began to consider how she could best profit by her own wrong.
She thought she saw two of her favourite objects almost within her
reach, Mr. Palmer's fortune, and the future title for her daughter: no
obstacle seemed likely to oppose the accomplishment of her wishes,
except Amelia's own inclinations: these she thought she could readily
prevail upon her to give up; for she knew that her daughter was both of
a timid and of an affectionate temper; that she had never in any
instance withstood, or even disputed, her maternal authority; and that
dread of her displeasure had often proved sufficient to make Amelia
suppress or sacrifice her own feelings. Combining all these reflections
with her wonted rapidity, Mrs. Beaumont determined what her play should
now be. She saw, or thought she saw, that she ought, either by gentle
or strong means, to lure or intimidate Amelia to her purpose; and that,
while she carried on this part of the plot with her daughter in
private, she should appear to Mr. Palmer to yield to his persuasions by
degrees, to make the young people happy their own way, and to be
persuaded reluctantly out of her aversion to _sprigs of quality_. To be
sure, it would be necessary to give fresh explanations and instructions
to Sir John Hunter, through his sister, with the new parts that he and
she were to act in this domestic drama. As soon as Mrs. Beaumont
returned from her airing, therefore, she retired to her own apartment,
and wrote a note of explanation, with a proper proportion of sentiment
and _verbiage,_ to her dear Albina, begging to see her and Sir John
Hunter the very next day. The horse, which had been lamed by the nail,
now, of course, had recovered; and it was found by Mrs. Beaumont that
she had been misinformed, and that he had been lamed only by sudden
cramp. Any excuse she knew would be sufficient, in the present state of
affairs, to the young lady, who was more ready to be deceived than even
our heroine was disposed to deceive. Indeed, as Machiavel says, "as
there are people willing to cheat, there will always be those who are
ready to be cheated."
CHAPTER VII.
"Vous m'enchantez, mais vous m'epouvantez;
Ces pieges-la sont-ils bien ajustes?
Craignez vous point de vous laisser surprendre
Dans les filets que vos mains savent tendre?"
VOLTAIRE.
To prepare Amelia to receive Sir John Hunter _properly_ was Mrs.
Beaumont's next attempt; for as she had represented to Mr. Palmer that
her daughter was attached to Sir John, it was necessary that her manner
should in some degree accord with this representation, that at least it
should not exhibit any symptoms of disapprobation or dislike: whatever
coldness or reserve might appear, it would be easy to attribute to
bashfulness and dread of Mr. Palmer's observation. When Amelia was
undressing at night, her mother went into her room; and, having
dismissed the maid, threw herself into an arm-chair, and exclaimed,
half-yawning, "How tired I am!--No wonder, such a long airing as we
took to-day. But, my dear Amelia, I could not sleep to-night without
telling you how glad I am to find that you are such a favourite with
Mr. Palmer."
"I am glad he likes me," said Amelia; "I am sure I like him. What a
benevolent, excellent man he seems to be!"
"Excellent, excellent--the best creature in the world!--And so
interested about you! and so anxious that you should be well and soon
established; almost as anxious about it as I am myself."
"He is very good--and you are very good, mamma; but there is no occasion
that I should be _soon established_, as it is called--is there?"
"That is the regular answer, you know, in these cases, from every young
lady that ever was born, in or out of a book within the memory of man.
But we will suppose all that to be said prettily on your part, and
answered properly on mine: so give me leave to go on to something more
to the purpose; and don't look so alarmed, my love. You know, I am not a
hurrying person; you shall take your own time, and every thing shall be
done as you like, and the whole shall be kept amongst ourselves
entirely; for nothing is so disadvantageous and distressing to a young
woman as to have these things talked of in the world long before they
take place."
"But, ma'am!--Surely there is no marriage determined upon for me,
without my even knowing it."
"Determined upon!--Oh dear, no, my darling. You shall decide every thing
for yourself."
"Thank you, mother; now you are kind indeed."
"Indubitably, my dearest Amelia, I would not decide on any thing without
consulting you: for I have the greatest dependence on your prudence and
judgment. With a silly romantic girl, who had no discretion, I should
certainly think it my duty to do otherwise; and if I saw my daughter
following headlong some idle fancy of fifteen, I should interpose my
authority at once, and say, It must not be. But I know my Amelia so
well, that I am confident she will judge as prudently for herself as I
could for her; and indeed, I am persuaded that our opinions will be now,
as they almost always are, my sweet girl, the same."
"I hope so mamma--but----"
"Well, well, I'll allow a maidenly _but_--and you will allow that Sir
John Hunter shall be the man at last."
"Oh, mamma, that can never be," said Amelia, with much earnestness.
"_Never_--A young lady's _never_, Amelia, I will allow too. Don't
interrupt me, my dear--but give me leave to tell you again, that you
shall have your own time--Mr. Palmer has given his consent and
approbation."
"Consent and approbation!" cried Amelia. "And is it come to this?
without even consulting me! And is this the way I am left to judge for
myself?--Oh, mother! mother! what will become of me?"
Amelia, who had long had experience that it was vain for her to attempt
to counteract or oppose any scheme that her mother had planned, sat down
at this instant in despair: but even from despair she took courage; and,
rising suddenly, exclaimed, "I never can or will marry Sir John
Hunter--for I love another person--mother, you know I do--and I will
speak truth, and abide by it, let the consequences be what they may."
"Well, my dear, don't speak so loud, at all events; for though it may be
very proper to speak the truth, it is not necessary that the whole
universe should hear it. You speak of another attachment--is it possible
that you allude to Captain Walsingham? But Captain Walsingham has never
proposed for you, nor even given you any reason to think he would; or if
he has, he must have deceived me in the grossest manner."
"He is incapable of deceiving any body," said Amelia. "He never gave me
any reason to think he would propose for me; nor ever made the slightest
attempt to engage my affections. You saw his conduct: it was always
uniform. He is incapable of any double or underhand practices."
"In the warmth of your eulogium on Captain Walsingham, you seem, Amelia,
to forget that you reflect, in the most severe manner, upon yourself:
for what woman, what young woman especially, who has either delicacy,
pride, or prudence, can avow that she loves a man, who has never given,
even by her own statement of the matter, the slightest reason to believe
that he thinks of her?"
Amelia stood abashed, and for some instants incapable of reply: but at
last, approaching her mother, and hiding her face, as she hung over her
shoulder, she said, in a low and timid voice, "It was only to my
mother--I thought that could not be wrong--and when it was to prevent a
greater wrong, the engaging myself to another person."
"Engaging yourself, my foolish child! but did I not tell you that you
should have your own time?"
"But no time, mother, will do."
"Try, my dear love; that is all I ask of you; and this you cannot, in
duty, in kindness, in prudence, or with decency, refuse me."
"Cannot I?"
"Indeed you cannot. So say not a word more that can lessen the high
opinion I have of you; but show me that you have a becoming sense of
your own and of female dignity, and that you are not the poor,
mean-spirited creature, to pine for a man who disdains you."
"Disdain! I never saw any disdain. On the contrary, though he never gave
me reason to think so, I cannot help fancying----"
"That he likes you--and yet he never proposed for you! Do not believe
it--a man may coquet as well as a woman, and often more; but till he
makes his proposal, never, if you have any value for your own happiness
or dignity, fancy for a moment that he loves you."
"But he cannot marry, because he is so poor."
"True--and if so, what stronger argument can be brought against your
thinking of him?"
"I do not think of him--I endeavour not to think of him."
"That is my own girl! Depend upon it, he thinks not of you. He is all in
his profession--prefers it to every woman upon earth. I have heard him
say he would not give it up for any consideration. All for glory, you
see; nothing for love."
Amelia sighed. Her mother rose, and kissing her, said, as if she took
every thing she wished for granted, "So, my Amelia, I am glad to see you
reasonable, and ready to show a spirit that becomes you--Sir John Hunter
breakfasts here to-morrow."
"But," said Amelia, detaining her mother, who would have left the room,
"I cannot encourage Sir John Hunter, for I do not esteem him; therefore
I am sure I can never love him."
"You cannot encourage Sir John Hunter, Amelia?" replied Mrs. Beaumont.
"It is extraordinary that this should appear to you an impossibility the
very moment the gentleman proposes for you. It was not always so. Allow
me to remind you of a ball last year, where you and I met both Sir John
Hunter and Captain Walsingham; as I remember, you gave all your
attention that evening to Sir John."
"Oh, mother, I am ashamed of that evening--I regret it more than any
evening of my life. I did wrong, very wrong; and bitterly have I
suffered for it, as people always do, sooner or later, by deceit. I
was afraid that you should see my real feelings; and, to conceal
them, I, for the first and last time of my life, acted like a
coquette. But if you recollect, dear mother, the very next day I
confessed the truth to you. My friend, Miss Walsingham, urged me to
have the courage to be sincere."
"Miss Walsingham! On every occasion I find the secret influence of these
Walsinghams operating in my family," cried Mrs. Beaumont, from a sudden
impulse of anger, which threw her off her guard.
"Surely their influence has always been beneficial to us all. To me,
Miss Walsingham's friendship has been of the greatest service."
"Yes; by secretly encouraging you, against your mother's approbation, in
a ridiculous passion for a man who neither can nor will marry you."
"Far from encouraging me, madam, in any thing contrary to your
wishes--and far from wishing to do any thing secretly, Miss Walsingham
never spoke to me on this subject but once; and that was to advise me
strongly not to conceal the truth from you, and not to make use of any
artifices or manoeuvres."
"Possibly, very possibly; but I presume you could conduct yourself
properly without Miss Walsingham's interference or advice."
"I thought, mamma, you liked Miss Walsingham particularly, and that you
wished I should cultivate her friendship."
"Certainly; I admire Miss Walsingham extremely, and wish to be on the
best terms with the family; but I will never permit any one to interfere
between me and my children. We should have gone on better without
advisers."
"I am sure her advice and friendship have preserved me from many faults,
but never led me into any. I might, from timidity, and from fear of your
superior address and abilities, have become insincere and artful; but
she has given me strength of mind enough to bear the present evil, and
to dare at all hazards to speak the truth."
"But, my dearest Amelia," said Mrs. Beaumont, softening her tone, "why
so warm? What object can your mother have but your good? Can any Miss
Walsingham, or any other friend upon earth, have your interest so much
at heart as I have? Why am I so anxious, if it is not from love to you?"
Amelia was touched by her mother's looks and words of affection, and
acknowledged that she had spoken with too much warmth.
Mrs. Beaumont thought she could make advantage of this moment.
"Then, my beloved child, if you are convinced of my affection for you,
show at least some confidence in me in return: show some disposition to
oblige me. Here is a match I approve; here is an establishment every way
suitable."
"But why, mamma, must I be married?" interrupted Amelia. "I will not
think, at least I will try not to think, of any one of whom you do not
approve; but I cannot marry any other man while I feel such a partiality
for--. So, dear mother, pray do not let Sir John Hunter come here any
more on my account. It is not necessary that I should marry."
"It is necessary, however," said Mrs. Beaumont, withdrawing her hand
haughtily, and darting a look of contempt and anger upon her daughter,
"it is necessary, however, that I should be mistress in my own house,
and that I should invite here whomever I please. And it is necessary
that you should receive them without airs, and with politeness. On this,
observe, I insist, and will be obeyed."
Mrs. Beaumont would receive no reply, but left the room seemingly in
great displeasure: but even half her anger was affected, to intimidate
this gentle girl.
Sir John Hunter and his sister arrived to breakfast. Mrs. Beaumont
played her part admirably; so that she seemed to Mr. Palmer only to be
enduring Sir John from consideration for her daughter, and from
compliance with Mr. Palmer's own request that she would try what could
be done to make the young people happy; yet she, with infinite address,
_drew Sir John out_, and dexterously turned every thing he said into what
she thought would please Mr. Palmer, though all the time she seemed to
be misunderstanding or confuting him. Mr. Palmer's attention, which was
generally fixed exclusively on one object at a time, had ample
occupation in studying Sir John, whom he examined, for Amelia's sake,
with all the honest penetration which he possessed. Towards Amelia
herself he scarcely ever looked; for, without any refinement of
delicacy, he had sufficient feeling and sense to avoid what he thought
would embarrass a young lady. Amelia's silence and reserve appeared to
him, therefore, as her politic mother had foreseen, just what was
natural and proper. He had been told that she was attached to Sir John
Hunter; and the idea of doubting the truth of what Mrs. Beaumont had
asserted could not enter his confiding mind,
In the mean time, our heroine, to whom the conduct of a double intrigue
was by no means embarrassing, did not neglect the affairs of her dear
Albina: she had found time before breakfast, as she met Miss Hunter
getting out of her carriage, to make herself sure that her notes of
explanation had been understood; and she now, by a multitude of scarcely
perceptible inuendoes, and seemingly suppressed looks of pity, contrived
to carry on the representation she had made to her son of this damsel's
helpless and lovelorn state. Indeed, the young lady appeared as much in
love as could have been desired for stage effect, and rather more than
was necessary for propriety. All Mrs. Beaumont's art, therefore, was
exerted to throw a veil of becoming delicacy over what might have been
too glaring, by hiding half to improve the whole. Where there was any
want of management on the part of her young coadjutrix, she, with
exquisite skill, made advantage even of these errors by look? and sighs,
that implied almost as emphatically as words could have said to her
son--"You see what I told you is too true. The simple creature has not
art enough to conceal her passion. She is undone in the eyes of the
world, if you do not confirm what report has said."
This she left to work its natural effect upon the vanity of man. And in
the midst of these multiplied manoeuvres, Mrs. Beaumont sat with ease
and unconcern, sometimes talking to one, sometimes to another; so that a
stranger would have thought her a party uninterested in all that was
going forward, and might have wondered at her blindness or indifference.
But, alas! notwithstanding her utmost art, she failed this day in
turning and twisting Sir John Hunter's conversation and character so as
to make them agreeable to Mr. Palmer. This she knew by his retiring at
an early hour at night, as he sometimes did when company was not
agreeable to him. His age gave him this privilege. Mrs. Beaumont
followed, to inquire if he would not wish to _take something_ before he
went to rest.
"By St. George, Madam Beaumont, you are right," said Mr. Palmer, "you
are right, in not liking this baronet. I'm tired of him--sick of
him--can't like him!--sorry for it, since Amelia likes him. But what can
a daughter of Colonel Beaumont find in this man to be pleased with? He
is a baronet, to be sure, but that is all. Tell me, my good madam, what
it is the girl likes in him?"
Mrs. Beaumont could only answer by an equivocal smile, and a shrug, that
seemed to say--there's no accounting for these things.
"But, my dear madam," pursued Mr. Palmer, "the man is neither handsome
nor young: he is old enough for her father, though he gives himself the
airs of a youngster; and his manners are--I can allow for fashionable
manners. But, madam, it is his character I don't like--selfish--cold--
designing--not a generous thought, not a good feeling about him. You are
right, madam, quite right. In all his conversation such meanness, and
even in what he means for wit, such a contempt of what is fair and
honourable! Now that fellow does not believe that such a thing as virtue
or patriotism, honour or friendship, exists. The jackanapes!--and as for
love! why, madam, I'm convinced he is no more in love with the girl than
I am, nor so much, ma'am, nor half so much!--does not feel her merit,
does not value her accomplishments, does not Madam! madam! he is
thinking of nothing but himself, and her fortune--fortune! fortune!
fortune! that's all. The man's a miser. Madam, they that know no better
fancy that there are none but old misers; but I can tell them there are
young misers, and middle-aged misers, and misers of all ages. They say
such a man can't be a miser, because he is a spendthrift; but, madam,
you know a man can be both--yes, and that's what many of your young men
of fashion are, and what, I'll engage, this fellow is. And can Amelia
like him? my poor child! and does she think he loves her? my poor, poor
child! how can she be so blind? but love is always blind, they say. I've
a great mind to take her to task, and ask her, between ourselves, what
it is she likes in her baronet."
"Oh, my dear sir! she would sink to the centre of the earth if you were
to speak. For Heaven's sake, don't take her to task, foolish as she is;
besides, she would be so angry with me for telling you."
"Angry? the gipsy! Am not I her godfather and her guardian? though I
could not act, because I was abroad, yet her guardian I was left by her
father, and love her too as well as I should a daughter of her
father's--and she to have secrets, and mysteries! that would be worse
than all the rest, for mysteries are what I abhor. Madam, wherever there
are secrets and mysteries in a family, take my word for it, there is
somethings wrong."
"True, my dear sir; but Amelia has no idea of mysteries or art. I only
meant that young girls, you know, will be ashamed on these occasions,
and we must make allowances. So do not speak to her, I conjure you."
"Well, madam, you are her mother, and must know best. I have only her
interest at heart: but I won't speak to her, since it will so distress
her. But what shall be done about this lover? You are quite right about
him, and I have not a word more to say."
"But I declare I think you judge him too harshly. Though I am not
inclined to be his friend, yet I must do him the justice to say, he has
more good qualities than you allow, or rather than you have seen yet. He
is passionately fond of Amelia. Oh, there you're wrong, quite wrong; he
is passionately in love, whatever he may pretend to the contrary."
"Pretend! and why should the puppy pretend not to be in love?"
"Pride, pride and fashion. Young men are so governed by fashion, and so
afraid of ridicule. There's a set of _fashionables_ now, with whom love
is a _bore, _you know."
"I know! no, indeed, I know no such thing," said Mr. Palmer. "But this I
know, that I hate pretences of all sorts; and if the man is in love, I
should, for my part, like him the better for showing it."
"So he will, when you know him a little better. You are quite a
stranger, and he is bashful."
"Bashful! Never saw so confident a man in any country."
"But he is shy under all that."
"Under! But I don't like characters where every thing is under something
different from what appears at top."
"Well, take a day or two more to study him. Though I am his enemy, I
must deal fairly by him, for poor Amelia's sake."
"You are a good mother, madam, an indulgent mother, and I honour and
love you for it. I'll follow your example, and bear with this
spendthrift-miser-coxcomb sprig of quality for a day or two more, and
try to like him, for Amelia's sake. But, if he's not worthy of her, he
sha'n't have her, by St. George, he shall not--shall he, madam?"
"Oh, no, no; good night, my good sir."
What the manoeuvres of the next day might have effected, and how far Sir
John Hunter profited by the new instructions which were given to him in
consequence of this conversation, can never be accurately ascertained,
because the whole united plan of operations was disturbed by a new and
unforeseen event.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Un volto senza senno,
Un petto senza core, un cor senz' alma,
Un' alma senza fede."
GUARINI.
"Here's glorious news of Captain Walsingham!" cried young Beaumont; "I
always knew he would distinguish himself if he had an opportunity; and,
thank God! he has had as fine an opportunity as heart could wish. Here,
mother! here, Mr. Palmer, is an account of it in this day's paper! and
here is a letter from himself, which Mr. Walsingham has just sent me."
"Oh, give _me_ the letter," cried Mrs. Beaumont, with affected
eagerness.
"Let me have the paper, then," cried Mr. Palmer. "Where are my
spectacles?"
"Are there any letters for _me?_" said Sir John Hunter. "Did my
newspapers come? Albina, I desired that they should be forwarded here.
Mrs. Beaumont, can you tell me any thing of _my_ papers?"
"Dear Amelia, how interesting your brother looks when he is pleased!"
Albina whispered, quite loud enough to be heard.
"A most gallant action, by St. George!" exclaimed Mr. Palmer. "These
are the things that keep up the honour of the British navy, and the
glory of Britain."
"This Spanish ship that Captain Walsingham captured the day after the
engagement is likely to turn out a valuable prize, too," said Mrs.
Beaumont. "I am vastly glad to find this by his letter, for the money
will be useful to him, he wanted it so much. He does not say how much
his share will come to, does he, Edward?"
"No, ma'am: you see he writes in a great hurry, and he has only time, as
he says, to mention _the needful_."
"And is not the money _the needful?_" said Sir John Hunter, with a
splenetic smile.
"With Walsingham it is only a secondary consideration," replied
Beaumont; "honour is Captain Walsingham's first object. I dare say he
has never yet calculated what his prize-money will be."
"Right, right!" reiterated Mr. Palmer; "then he is the right sort.
Long may it be before our naval officers think more of prize-money
than of glory! Long may it be before our honest tars turn into
calculating pirates!"
"They never will or can whilst they have such officers as Captain
Walsingham," said Beaumont.
"By St. George, he seems to be a fine fellow, and you a warm friend,"
said Mr. Palmer. "Ay, ay, the colonel's own son. But why have I never
seen any of these Walsinghams since I came to the country? Are they
ashamed of being related to me, because I am a merchant?"
"More likely they are too proud to pay court to you because you are so
rich," said Mr. Beaumont. "But they did come to see you, sir,--the
morning you were out so late, mother, you know."
"Oh, ay, true--how unfortunate!"
"But have not we horses? have not we carriages? have not we legs?" said
Mr. Palmer. "I'll go and see these Walsinghams to-morrow, please God I
live so long: for I am proud of my relationship to this young hero; and
I won't be cast off by good people, let them be as proud as they
will--that's their fault--but I will not stand on idle ceremony: so, my
good Mistress Beaumont, we will all go in a body, and storm their
castle to-morrow morning."
"An admirable plan! I like it of all things!" said Mrs. Beaumont. "How
few, even in youth, are so active and enthusiastic as our good friend!
But, my dear Mr. Palmer--"
"But I wish I could see the captain himself. Is there any chance of his
coming home?"
"Home! yes," said Beaumont: "did you not read his letter, sir? here it
is; he will be at home directly. He says, 'perhaps a few hours after
this letter reaches you, you'll see me.'"
"See him! Odds my life, I'm glad of it. And you, my little Amelia," said
Mr. Palmer, tapping her shoulders as she stood with her back to him
reading the newspaper; "and you, my little silent one, not one word have
I heard from you all this time. Does not some spark of your father's
spirit kindle within you on hearing of this heroic relation of ours?"
"Luckily for the ladies, sir," said Sir John Hunter, coming up, as he
thought, to the lady's assistance--"luckily for young ladies, sir, they
are not called upon to be heroes; and it would be luckier still for us
men, if they never set themselves up for heroines--Ha! ha! ha! Miss
Beaumont," continued he, "the shower is over; I'll order the horses out,
that we may have our ride." Sir John left the room, evidently pleased
with his own wit.
"Amelia, my love," said Mrs. Beaumont, who drew up also to give
assistance at this critical juncture, "go, this moment, and write a note
to your friend Miss Walsingham, to say that we shall all be with them
early to-morrow: I will send a servant directly, that we may be sure to
meet with them at home this time; you'll find pen, ink, and paper in my
dressing-room, love."
Mrs. Beaumont drew Amelia's arm within hers, and, dictating kindest
messages for the Walsinghams, led her out of the loom. Having thus
successfully covered her daughter's retreat, our skilful manoeuvrer
returned, all self-complacent, to the company. And next, to please the
warm-hearted Mr. Palmer, she seemed to sympathize in his patriotic
enthusiasm for the British navy: she pronounced a panegyric on the
_young hero,_ Captain Walsingham, which made the good old man rub his
hands with exultation, and which irradiated with joy the countenance of
her son. But, alas! Mrs. Beaumont's endeavours to please, or rather to
dupe all parties, could not, even with her consummate address, always
succeed: though she had an excellent memory, and great presence of mind,
with peculiar quickness both of eye and ear, yet she could not always
register, arrange, and recollect all that was necessary for the various
parts she undertook to act. Scarcely had she finished her eulogium on
Captain Walsingham, when, to her dismay, she saw close behind her Sir
John Hunter, who had entered the room without her perceiving it. He said
not one word; but his clouded brow showed his suspicions, and his
extreme displeasure.
"Mrs. Beaumont," said he, after some minutes' silence, "I find I must
have the honour of wishing you a good morning, for I have an
indispensable engagement at home to dinner to-day."
"I thought, Sir John, you and Amelia were going to ride?"
"Ma'am, Miss Beaumont does not choose to ride--she told me, so this
instant as I passed her on the stairs. Oh! don't disturb her, I beg--she
is writing to Miss Walsingham--I have the honour to wish you a good
morning, ma'am."
"Well, if you are determined to go, let me say three words to you in
the music-room, Sir John: though," added she, in a whisper intended to
be heard by Mr. Palmer, "I know you do not look upon me as your
friend, yet depend upon it I shall treat you and all the world with
perfect candour."
Sir John, though sulky, could not avoid following the lady; and as soon
as she had shut all the doors and double-doors of the music-room, she
exclaimed, "It is always best to speak openly to one's friends. Now, my
dear Sir John Hunter, how can you be so childish as to take ill of me
what I really was forced to say, for _your_ interest, about Captain
Walsingham, to Mr. Palmer? You know old Palmer is the oddest, most
self-willed man imaginable! humour and please him I must, the few days
he is with me. You know he goes on Tuesday--that's decided--Dr. Wheeler
has seen him, has talked to him about his health, and it is absolutely
necessary that he should return to the West Indies. Then he is perfectly
determined to leave all he has to Amelia."
"Yes, ma'am; but how am I sure of being the better for that?"
interrupted Sir John, whose decided selfishness was a match for Mrs.
Beaumont's address, because it went without scruple or ceremony straight
to his object; "for, ma'am, you can't think I'm such a fool as not to
see that Mr. Palmer wishes me at the devil. Miss Beaumont gives me no
encouragement; and you, ma'am, I know, are too good a politician to
offend Mr. Palmer: so, if he declares in favour of this young _hero,_
Captain Walsingham, I may quit the field."
"But you don't consider that Mr. Palmer's young hero has never made any
proposal for Amelia."
"Pshaw! ma'am--but I know, as well as you do, that he likes her, and
propose he will for her now that he has money."
"Granting that; you forget that all this takes time, and that Palmer
will be gone to the West Indies before they can bring out their
proposal; and as soon as he is gone, and has left his will, as he means
to do, with me, you and I have the game in our own hands. It is very
extraordinary to me that you do not seem to understand my play, though I
explained the whole to Albina; and I thought she had made you comprehend
the necessity for my _seeming,_ for this one week, to be less your
friend than I could wish, because of your title, and that odd whim of
Palmer, you know: but I am sure we understand one another now."
"Excuse me," said the invincible Sir John: "I confess, Mrs. Beaumont,
you have so much more abilities, and _finesse_, and all that sort of
thing, than I have, that I cannot help being afraid of--of not
understanding the business rightly. In business there is nothing like
understanding one another, and going on sure grounds. There has been so
much going backwards and forwards, and explanations and manoeuvres, that
I am not clear how it is; nor do I feel secure even that I have the
honour of your approbation."
"What! not when I have assured you of it, Sir John, in the most
unequivocal manner?"
It was singular that the only person to whom in this affair Mrs.
Beaumont spoke the real truth should not believe her. Sir John Hunter
continued obstinately suspicious and incredulous. He had just heard that
his uncle Wigram, his rich uncle Wigram, was taken ill, and not likely
to recover. This intelligence had also reached Mrs. Beaumont, and she
was anxious to secure the baronet and the Wigram fortune for her
daughter; but nothing she could say seemed to satisfy him that she was
not double-dealing. At last, to prove to him her sincerity, she gave him
what he required, and what alone, he said, could make his mind easy,
could bring him to make up his mind--_a written assurance_ of her
approbation of his addresses to Amelia. With this he was content; "for,"
said he, "what is written remains, and there can be no misunderstandings
in future, or changing of minds."
It was agreed between these confidential friends, that Sir John should
depart, _as it were_, displeased; and she begged that he would not
return till Mr. Palmer should have left the country.
Now there was a numerous tribe of _hangers-on_, who were in the habit of
frequenting Beaumont Park, whom Mrs. Beaumont loved to see at her house;
because, besides making her feel her own importance, they were
frequently useful to carry on the subordinate parts of her perpetual
manoeuvres. Among these secondary personages who attended Mrs. Beaumont
abroad to increase her consequence in the eyes of common spectators, and
who at home filled the stage, and added to the bustle and effect, her
chief favourites were Mr. Twigg (the same gentleman who was deputed to
decide upon the belt or the screen) and Captain Lightbody. Mr. Twigg was
the most, elegant flatterer of the two, but Captain Lightbody was the
most assured, and upon the whole made his way the best. He was a
handsome man, had a good address, could tell a good story, sing a good
song, and _make things go off_ well, when there was company; so that he
was a prodigious assistance to the mistress of the house. Then he danced
with the young ladies when they had no other partners; he mounted guard
regularly beside the piano-forte, or the harp, when the ladies were
playing; and at dinner it was always the etiquette for him to sit beside
Miss Beaumont, or Miss Hunter, when the gentlemen guests were not such
as Mrs. Beaumont thought entitled to that honour, or such as she deemed
_safe_ companions. These arrangements imply that Captain Lightbody
thought himself in Mrs. Beaumont's confidence: and so he was to a
certain degree, just enough to flatter him into doing her high or low
behests. Whenever she had a report to circulate, or to contradict,
Captain Lightbody was put in play; and no man could be better calculated
for this purpose, both from his love of talking, and of locomotion. He
galloped about from place to place, and from one great house to another;
knew all the lords and ladies, and generals and colonels, and
brigade-majors and aides-de-camp, in the land. Could any mortal be
better qualified to fetch and carry news for Mrs. Beaumont? Besides
news, it was his office to carry compliments, and to speed the
intercourse, not perhaps from soul to soul, but from house to house,
which is necessary in a visiting country to keep up the character of an
agreeable neighbour. Did Mrs. Beaumont forget to send a card of
invitation, or neglect to return a visit, Lightbody was to set it to
rights for her, Lightbody, the ready bearer of pretty notes, the maker
always, the fabricator sometimes, of the civilest speeches imaginable.
This expert speechifier, this ever idle, ever busy scamperer, our
heroine dispatched to engage a neighbouring family to pay her a morning
visit the next day, just about the time which was fixed for her going to
see the Walsinghams. The usual caution was given. "Pray, Lightbody, do
not let my name be used; do not let me be mentioned; but take it upon
yourself, and say, as if from yourself, that you have reason to believe
I take it ill that they have not been here lately. And then you can
mention the hour that would be most convenient. But let me have nothing
to do with it. I must not appear in it on any account."
In consequence of Captain Lightbody's faithful execution of his secret
instructions, a barouche full of morning visitors drove to the door,
just at the time when Mrs. Beaumont had proposed to set out for
Walsingham House. Mrs. Beaumont, with a well-dissembled look of
vexation, exclaimed, as she looked out of the window at the carriage,
"How provoking! Who can these people be? I hope Martin will say I am not
at home. Ring--ring, Amelia. Oh, it's too late, they have seen me! and
Martin, stupid creature! has let them in."
Mr. Palmer was much discomfited, and grew more and more impatient when
these troublesome visitors protracted their stay, and proposed a walk to
see some improvements in the grounds.
"But, my good Mistress Beaumont," said he, "you know we are engaged
to our cousin Walsingham this morning; and if you will give me leave,
I will go on before you with Mr. Beaumont, and we can say what
detains you,"
Disconcerted by this simple determination of this straight-forward,
plain-spoken old gentleman, Mrs. Beaumont saw that farther delay on her
part would be not only inefficacious, but dangerous. She now was eager
to be relieved from the difficulties which she had herself contrived.
She would not, for any consideration, have trusted Mr. Palmer to pay
this visit without her: therefore, by an able counter-movement, she
extricated herself not only without loss, but with advantage, from this
perilous situation. She made a handsome apology to her visitors for
being obliged to run away from them. "She would leave Amelia to have the
pleasure of showing them the grounds."
Mrs. Beaumont was irresistible in her arrangements. Amelia, disappointed
and afraid to show how deeply she felt the disappointment, was obliged
to stay to do the honours of Beaumont Park, whilst her mother drove off
rejoicing in half the success, at least, of her stratagem; but even as a
politician she used upon every occasion too much artifice. It was said
of Cardinal Mazarin, he is a great politician, but in all his politics
there is one capital defect--"_C'est qu'il veut toujours tromper_."
"How tiresome those people were! I thought we never should have got away
from them," said Mrs. Beaumont. "What possessed them to come this
morning, and to pay such a horrid long visit? Besides, those Duttons, at
all times, are the most stupid creatures upon the face of the earth; I
cannot endure them; so awkward and ill-bred too! and yet of a good
family--who could think it? They are people one must see, but they are
absolutely insufferable."
"Insufferable!" said Mr. Palmer; "why, my good madam, then you have
the patience of a martyr; for you suffered them so patiently, that I
never should have guessed you suffered at all. I protest I thought
they were friends and favourites of yours, and that you were very glad
to see them."
"Well, well, 'tis the way of the world," continued Mr. Palmer; "this
sort of--what do you call it? double-dealing about visitors, goes on
every where, Madam Beaumont. But how do I know, that when I go away, you
may not be as glad to get rid of me as you were to get away from these
Duttons?" added he, in a tone of forced jocularity. "How do I know, but
that the minute my back is turned, you may not begin to take me to
pieces in my turn, and say, 'That old Palmer! he was the most tiresome,
humoursome, strange, old-fashioned fellow; I thought we should never
have got rid of him?"
"My dear, dear sir, how can you speak in such a manner?" cried Mrs.
Beaumont, who had made several vain attempts to interrupt this speech.
"You, who are our best friend! is it possible you could suspect? Is
there no difference to be made between friends and common acquaintance?"
"I am sure I hope there is," said Mr. Palmer, smiling.
There was something so near the truth in Mr. Palmer's raillery, that
Mrs. Beaumont could not take it with as much easy unconcern as the
occasion required, especially in the presence of her son, who maintained
a provoking silence. Unhappy indeed are those, who cannot, in such
moments of distress, in their own families, and in their nearest
connexions, find any relief from their embarrassments, and who look
round in vain for one to be _responsible_ for their sincerity. Mrs.
Beaumont sat uneasy and almost disconcerted. Mr. Palmer felt for his
snuff-box, his usual consolation; but it was not in his pocket: he had
left it on his table. Now Mrs. Beaumont was relieved, for she had
something to do, and something to say with her wonted politeness: in
spite of all remonstrance from Mr. Palmer, her man Martin was sent back
for the snuff-box; and conjectures about his finding it, and his being
able to overtake them before they arrived at Walsingham house, supplied
conversation for a mile or two.
"Here's Martin coming back full gallop, I vow," said Miss Hunter, who
could also talk on this topic.
"Come, come, my good lady," said Mr. Palmer, (taking the moment when the
young lady had turned her back as she stretched out of the carriage for
the pleasure of seeing Martin gallop)--"Come, come, my good Mrs.
Beaumont, shake hands and be friends, and hang the Duttons! I did not
mean to vex you by what I said. I am not so polite as I should be, I
know, and you perhaps are a little too polite. But that is no great
harm, especially in a woman."
Martin and the snuff-box came up at this instant; and all was apparently
as well as ever. Yet Mrs. Beaumont, who valued a reputation for
sincerity as much as Chartres valued a reputation for honesty, and
nearly upon the same principle, was seriously vexed that even this
transient light had been let in upon her real character. To such
_accidents_ duplicity is continually subject.
CHAPTER IX.
"Led by Simplicity divine,
She pleased, and never tried to shine;
She gave to chance each unschool'd feature,
And left her cause to sense and nature."--MORE.
Arrived at Walsingham Park, they met Miss Walsingham walking at some
distance from the house.
"Is Captain Walsingham come?" was the first question asked. "No, but
expected every hour."
That he had not actually arrived was a comfortable reprieve to Mrs.
Beaumont. Breathing more freely, and in refreshed spirits, she prepared
to alight from her carriage, to walk to the house with Miss Walsingham,
as Mr. Palmer proposed. Miss Hunter, who was dressed with uncommon
elegance, remonstrated in favour of her delicate slippers: not that she
named the real object of her solicitude--no; she had not spent so much
time with Mrs. Beaumont, that great mistress of the art of apologizing,
without learning at least the inferior practices of the trade. Of course
she had all the little common arts of excuse ever ready: and instead of
saying that she did not like to walk because she was afraid to spoil her
shoes, she protested she was afraid of the heat, and could not walk so
far. But Mr. Beaumont had jumped out of the carriage, and Mrs. Beaumont
did not wish that he should walk home _tete-a-tete_ with Miss
Walsingham; therefore Miss Hunter's remonstrances were of no avail.
"My love, you, will not be heated, for our walk is through this charming
shady grove; and if you are tired, here's my son will give you his arm."
Satisfied with this arrangement, the young lady, thus supported, found
it possible to walk. Mr. Palmer walked his own pace, looking round at
the beauties of the place, and desiring that nobody might mind him. This
was his way, and Mrs. Beaumont never teased him with talking to him,
when he did not seem to be in the humour for it. She, who made something
of every thing, began to manage the conversation with her other
companions during the walk, so as to favour her views upon the several
parties. Pursuing her principle, that love is in men's minds generally
independent of esteem, and believing that her son might be rendered
afraid of the superiority of Miss Walsingham's understanding, Mrs.
Beaumont took treacherous pains to _draw her out_. Starting from chance
seemingly, as she well knew how, a subject of debate, she went from
talking of the late marriage of some neighbouring couple, to discuss a
question on which she believed that Miss Walsingham's opinion would
differ from that of her son. The point was, whether a wife should or
should not have pin-money. Miss Walsingham thought that a wife's
accepting it would tend to establish a separate interest between married
people. Mr. Beaumont, on the contrary, was of opinion, that a wife's
having a separate allowance would prevent disputes. So Miss Hunter
thought, of course, for she had been prepared to be precisely of Mr.
Beaumont's opinion; but reasons she had none in its support. Indeed, she
said with a pretty simper, she thought that women had nothing to do with
reason or reasoning; that she thought a woman who really loved _any
body_ was always of that person's opinion; and especially in a wife she
did not see of what use reasoning and _all that_ could be, except to
make a woman contradict, and be odd, and fond of ruling: that for her
part she had no pretensions to any understanding, and if she had ever so
much, she should be glad, she declared upon her honour, to get rid of it
if she could; for what use could it possibly be of to her, when it must
be the husband's understanding that must always judge and rule, and a
wife ought only to obey, and be always of the opinion of the man of her
choice?--Having thus made her profession of folly in broken sentences,
with pretty confusion and all-becoming graces, she leaned upon Mr.
Beaumont's arm with a bewitching air of languid delicacy, that solicited
support. Mrs. Beaumont, suppressing a sigh, which, however, she took
care that her son should hear, turned to Miss Walsingham, and, in a
whisper, owned that she could not help loving abilities, and spirit too,
even in her own sex. Then she observed aloud, that much might be urged
on her side of the question with regard to pin-money; for not only, as
Miss Walsingham justly said, it might tend to make a separate interest
between husband and wife, but the wife would probably be kept in total
ignorance of her husband's affairs; and _that_ in some cases might be
very disadvantageous, as some women are more capable, from their
superior understanding, of managing every thing than most men, indeed,
than any man she could name.
Even under favour of this pretty compliment, which was plainly directed
by a glance of Mrs. Beaumont's eye, Miss Walsingham would not accept of
this painful pre-eminence. She explained and made it clear, that she had
not any ambition to rule or manage.
"That I can readily believe," said Mr. Beaumont; "for I have observed,
that it is not always the women who are the most able to decide who are
the most ambitious to govern."
This observation either was not heard or was not understood by Miss
Hunter, whose whole soul was occupied in settling some fold of her
drapery: but Mr. Beaumont's speech had its full effect on Mrs. Beaumont,
who bit her lip, and looked reproachfully at her son, as if she thought
this an infringement of his promised truce. A moment afterwards she felt
the imprudence of her own reproachful look, and was sensible that she
would have done better not to have fixed the opinion or feeling in her
son's mind by noticing it thus with displeasure. Recovering, herself,
for she never was disconcerted for more than half a minute, she passed
on with easy grace to discuss the merits of the heroine of some new
novel--an historic novel, which gave her opportunity of appealing to
Miss Walsingham on some disputed points of history. She dexterously
attempted to draw her _well-informed_ young friend into a display of
literature which might alarm Mr. Beaumont. His education had in some
respects been shamefully neglected; for his mother had calculated that
ignorance would ensure dependence. He had endeavoured to supply, at a
late period of his education, the defects of its commencement; but he
was sensible that he had not supplied all his deficiencies, and he was
apt to feel, with painful impatient sensibility, his inferiority,
whenever literary subjects were introduced. Miss Walsingham, however,
was so perfectly free from all the affectation and vanity of a
bel-esprit, that she did not alarm even those who were inferior to her
in knowledge; their self-complacency, instead of being depressed by the
comparison of their attainments with hers, was insensibly raised, by the
perception that notwithstanding these, she could take pleasure in their
conversation, could appreciate their good sense or originality of
thought, without recurring to the authority of books, or of great names.
In fact, her mind had never been overwhelmed by a wasteful torrent of
learning. That the stream of literature had passed over, it was apparent
only from its fertility. Mrs. Beaumont repented of having drawn her into
conversation. Indeed, our heroine had trusted too much to some
expressions, which had at times dropped from her son, about _learned
ladies_, and certain _conversaziones_. She had concluded that he would
never endure literature in a wife; but she now perceived her mistake.
She discerned it too late; and at this moment she was doubly vexed, for
she saw Miss Hunter _produce_ herself in most disadvantageous contrast
to her rival. In conformity to instructions, which Mrs. Beaumont had
secretly given her, not to show too much sense or learning, because
gentlemen in general, and in particular Mr. Beaumont, disliked it; this
young lady now professed absolute ignorance and incapacity upon all
subjects; and meaning to have an air of pretty childish innocence or
timidity, really made herself appear quite like a simpleton. At the same
time a tinge of ineffectual malice and envy appeared through her
ill-feigned humility. She could give no opinion of any book--oh, she
would not give any judgment for the whole world! She did not think
herself qualified to speak, even if she had read the book, which indeed
she had not, for, really, she never read--she was not a _reading lady_.
As Miss Hunter had no portion of Mrs. Beaumont's quick penetration, she
did not see the unfavourable impression these words made: certain that
she was following exactly her secret instructions, she was confident of
being in the right line; so on she went, whilst Mrs. Beaumont sighed in
vain; and Miss Walsingham, who now saw and understood her whole play,
almost smiled at the comic of the scene.
"O dear, Mrs. Beaumont," continued Miss Hunter, "how can you ever appeal
to me about books and those sorts of things, when you know I know
nothing about the matter? For mercy's sake, never do so any more, for
you know I've no taste for those sorts of things. And besides, I own,
even if I could, I should so hate to be thought a blue-stocking--I would
not have the least bit of blue in my stockings for the whole world--I'd
rather have any other colour, black, white, red, green, yellow, any
other colour. So I own I'm not sorry I'm not what they call a genius;
for though genius to be sure's a very fascinating sort of thing in
gentlemen, yet in women it is not so becoming, I think, especially in
ladies: it does very well on the stage, and for artists, and so on; but
really now, in company, I think it's an awkward thing, and would make
one look so odd! Now, Mr. Beaumont, I must tell you an anecdote--"
"Stop, my dear Miss Hunter, your ear-ring is coming out. Stay! let me
clasp it, love!" exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, determined to stop her in the
career of nonsense, by giving her sensations, since she could not give
her ideas, a new turn.
"Oh, ma'am! ma'am! Oh! my ear! you are killing me, dearest Mrs.
Beaumont! pinching me to death, ma'am!"
"Did I pinch, my dear? It was the hinge of the ear-ring, I suppose."
"I don't know what it was; but here's blood, I declare!"
"My love, I beg you a thousand pardons. How could I be so awkward! But
why could not you for one moment hold your little head still?"
Miss Walsingham applied a patch to the wound.
"Such a pretty ear as it is," continued Mrs. Beaumont; "I am sure it was
a pity to hurt it."
"You really did hurt it," said Mr. Beaumont, in a tone of compassion.
"Oh, horridly!" cried Miss Hunter--"and I, that always faint at the
sight of blood!"
Afraid that the young lady would again spoil her part in the acting, and
lose all the advantages which might result from the combined effect of
the pretty ear and of compassion, Mrs. Beaumont endeavoured to take off
her attention from the wound, by attacking her ear-rings.
"My love," said she, "don't wear these ear-rings any more, for I assure
you there is no possibility of shutting or opening them, without
hurting you."
This expedient, however, nearly proved fatal in its consequences. Miss
Hunter entered most warmly into the defence of her ear-rings; and
appealed to Mr. Beaumont to confirm her decision, that they were the
prettiest and best ear-rings in the world. Unluckily, they did not
particularly suit his fancy, and the young lady, who had, but half an
hour before, professed that she could never be of a different opinion in
any thing from that of the man she loved, now pettishly declared that
she could not and would not give up her taste. Incensed still more by a
bow of submission, but not of conviction, from Mr. Beaumont, she went on
regardless of her dearest Mrs. Beaumont's frowns, and vehemently
maintained her judgment, quoting, with triumphant volubility,
innumerable precedents of ladies, "who had just bought _the very same_
ear-rings, and whose taste she believed nobody would dispute."
Mr. Beaumont had seen enough, now and upon many other occasions, to be
convinced that it is not on matters of consequence that ladies are apt
to grow most angry; and he stood confirmed in his belief that those who
in theory professed to have such a humble opinion of their own abilities
that they cannot do or understand any thing useful, are often, in
practice, the most prone to insist upon the infallibility of their taste
and judgment. Mrs. Beaumont, who saw with one glance of her quick eye
what passed at this moment in her son's mind, sighed, and said to
herself--"How impossible to manage a fool, who ravels, as fast as one
weaves, the web of her fortune!"
Yet though Mrs. Beaumont perceived and acknowledged the impracticability
of managing a fool for a single hour, it was one of the favourite
objects of her manoeuvres to obtain this very fool for a
daughter-in-law, with the hope of governing her for life. So
inconsistent are cunning people, even of the best abilities; so ill do
they calculate the value of their ultimate objects, however ingeniously
they devise their means, or adapt them to their ends.
During this walk Mr. Palmer had taken no part in the conversation; he
had seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, or occupied with observing
the beauties of the place. Tired with her walk--for Mrs. Beaumont always
complained of being fatigued when she was vexed, thus at once concealing
her vexation, and throwing the faults of her mind upon her body--she
stretched herself upon a sofa as soon as she reached the house, nor did
she recover from her exhausted state till she cast her eyes upon a
tamborine, which she knew would afford means of showing Miss Hunter's
figure and graces to advantage. Slight as this resource may seem, Mrs.
Beaumont well knew that slighter still have often produced great
effects. Soon afterward she observed her son smile repeatedly as he read
a passage in some book that lay upon the table, and she had the
curiosity to take up the book when he turned away. She found that it was
Cumberland's Memoirs, and saw the following little poem marked with
reiterated lines of approbation:
"Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace?
Go, silly thing, and hide that simp'ring face.
Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;
For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.
Why that soft languish? Why that drawling tone?
Art sick, art sleepy? Get thee hence: begone.
I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears,
Those flutt'rings, faintings, and unreal fears.
Can they deceive us? Can such mumm'ries move,
Touch us with pity, or inspire with love?
No, Affectation, vain is all thy art!
Those eyes may wander over ev'ry part;
They'll never find their passage to the heart."
Mrs. Beaumont, the moment she had read these lines, perceived why her
son had smiled. The portrait seemed really to have been drawn from Miss
Hunter, and the lines were so _a propos_ to the scene which had just
passed during the walk, that it was impossible to avoid the application.
Mrs. Beaumont shut the book hastily as her dear Albina approached, for
she was afraid that the young lady would have known her own picture. So
few people, however, even of those much wiser than Miss Hunter, know
themselves, that she need not have been alarmed. But she had no longer
leisure to devote her thoughts to this subject, for Mr. Walsingham, who
had been out riding, had by this time returned; and the moment he
entered the room, Mrs. Beaumont's attention was directed to him and to
Mr. Palmer. She introduced them to each other, with many expressions of
regret that they should not sooner have met.
Characters that are free from artifice immediately coalesce, as metals
that are perfectly pure can be readily cemented together. Mr. Palmer and
Mr. Walsingham were intimate in half an hour. There was an air of
openness and sincerity about Mr. Walsingham; a freedom and directness in
his conversation, which delighted Mr. Palmer.
"I am heartily glad we have met at last, my good cousin Walsingham,"
said he: "very sorry should I have been to have left the country without
becoming acquainted with you: and now I wish your gallant captain was
arrived. I am to set off the day after to-morrow, and I am sadly afraid
I shall miss seeing him."
Mr. Walsingham said, that as they expected him every hour, he hoped
Mr. Palmer would persuade Mrs. Beaumont to spend the day at
Walsingham House.
Mrs. Beaumont dared not object. On the contrary, it was now her policy
to pretend the fondest friendship for all the Walsingham family: yet,
all the time, pursuing her plan of preventing Mr. Palmer from discerning
their real characters and superior merit, she managed with great
dexterity to keep the conversation as much as possible upon general
topics, and tried to prevent Mr. Palmer from being much alone with Mr.
Walsingham, for she dreaded their growing intimacy. After dinner,
however, when the ladies retired, the gentlemen drew their chairs close
together, and had a great deal of conversation on interesting subjects.
The most interesting was Captain Walsingham: Mr. Palmer earnestly
desired to hear the particulars of his history.
"And from whom," said young Beaumont, turning to Mr. Walsingham, "can he
hear them better than from Captain Walsingham's guardian and friend?"
CHAPTER X.
"Yet never seaman more serenely brave
Led Britain's conquering squadrons o'er the wave."
"Friends are not always the best biographers," said Mr. Walsingham; "but
I will try to be impartial. My ward's first desire to be a sailor was
excited, as he has often since told me, by reading Robinson Crusoe. When
he was scarcely thirteen he went out in the Resolute, a frigate, under
the command of Captain Campbell. Campbell was an excellent officer, and
very strict in all that related to order and discipline. It was his
principle and his practice never to forgive _a first offence_; by which
the number of second faults was considerably diminished. My ward was not
much pleased at first with his captain; but he was afterwards convinced
that this strictness was what made a man of him. He was buffeted about,
and shown the rough of life; made to work hard, and submit to authority.
To reason he was always ready to yield; and by degrees he learned that
his first duty as a sailor was implicit obedience. In due time he was
made lieutenant: in this situation, his mixed duties of command and
obedience were difficult, because his first-lieutenant, the captain's
son, was jealous of him.
"Walsingham found it a more difficult task to win the confidence of the
son than it had been to earn the friendship of the father. His
punctuality in obeying orders, and his respectful manner to the
lieutenant, availed but little; for young Campbell still viewed him with
scornful yet with jealous eyes, imagining that he only wanted to show
himself the better officer.
"Of the falsehood of these suspicions Walsingham had at last an
opportunity of giving unquestionable proof. It happened one day that
Lieutenant Campbell, impatient at seeing a sailor doing some work
awkwardly on the outside of the vessel, snatched the rope from his hand,
and swore he would do it himself. In his hurry, Campbell missed his
footing, and fell overboard:--he could not swim. Walsingham had the
presence of mind to order the ship to be put about, and plunged
instantly into the water to save his rival. With much exertion he
reached Campbell, supported him till the boat was lowered down, and got
him safe aboard again."
"Just like himself!" cried young Beaumont; "all he ever wanted was
opportunity to show his soul."
"The first-lieutenant's jealousy was now changed into gratitude,"
continued Mr. Walsingham; "and from this time forward, instead of
suffering from that petty rivalship by which he used to be obstructed,
Walsingham enjoyed the entire confidence of young Campbell. This good
understanding between him and his brother officer not only made their
every day lives pleasant, but in times of difficulty secured success.
For three years that they lived together after this period, and during
which time they were ordered to every quarter of the globe, they never
had the slightest dispute, either in the busiest or the idlest times. At
length, in some engagement with a Dutch ship, the particulars of which I
forget, Lieutenant Campbell was mortally wounded: his last words
were--'Walsingham, comfort my father.' That was no easy task. Stern as
Captain Campbell seemed, the loss of his son was irreparable. He never
shed a tear when he was told it was all over, but said, 'God's will be
done;' and turning into his cabin, desired to be left alone. Half an
hour afterwards he sent for Walsingham, who found him quite calm. 'We
must see and do our duty together to the last,' said he.
"He exerted himself strenuously, and to all outward appearance was, as
the sailors said, the same man as ever; but Walsingham, who knew him
better, saw that his heart was broken, and that he wished for nothing
but an honourable death. One morning as he was on deck looking through
his glass, he called to Walsingham; 'Your eyes are better than mine,'
said he; 'look here, and tell me, do you see yonder sail--she's French?
Le Magnanime frigate, if I'm not mistaken. 'Yes,' said Walsingham, 'I
know her by the patch in her main sail.'--'We'll give her something to
do,' said Campbell, 'though she's so much our superior. Please God,
before the sun's over our heads, you shall have her in tow, Walsingham.'
'_We_ shall, I trust,' said Walsingham.--'Perhaps not _we_; for I own I
wish to fall,' said Campbell. 'You are first-lieutenant now; I can't
leave my men under better command, and I hope the Admiralty will give
you the ship, if you give it to his Majesty.'--Then turning to the
sailors, Captain Campbell addressed them with a countenance unusually
cheerful; and, after a few words of encouragement, gave orders to clear
decks for action. 'Walsingham, you'll see to every thing whilst I step
down to write.' He wrote, as it was afterwards found, two letters, both
concerning Walsingham's interests. The frigate with which they had to
engage was indeed far superior to them in force; but Campbell trusted to
the good order and steadiness as well as to the courage of his men. The
action was long and obstinate. Twice the English attempted to board the
enemy, and twice were repulsed. The third time, just as Captain Campbell
had seized hold of the French colours, which hung in rags over the side
of the enemy's ship, he received a wound in his breast, fell back into
Walsingham's arms, and almost instantly expired. The event of this day
was different from what Campbell had expected, for _Le Succes_ of fifty
guns appeared in sight; and, after a desperate engagement with her, in
which Walsingham was severely wounded, and every other officer on board
killed or wounded, Walsingham saw that nothing was left but to make a
wanton sacrifice of the remainder of his crew, or to strike.
"After a contest of six hours, he struck to _Le Succes_. Perfect silence
on his deck; a loud and insulting shout from the enemy!
"No sooner had Walsingham struck, than La Force, the captain of _Le
Succes_ hailed him, and ordered him to come in his own boat, and to
deliver his sword. Walsingham replied, that 'his sword, so demanded,
should never be delivered but with his life.'[2] The Frenchman did not
think proper to persist; but soon after sent his lieutenant on board
the Resolute, where the men were found at their quarters with lighted
matches in their hands, ready to be as good as their word. La Force,
the captain of _Le Succes_, was a sailor of fortune, who had risen by
chance, not merit."
"Ay, ay," interrupted Mr. Palmer, "so I thought; and there was no great
merit, or glory either, in a French fifty gun taking an English frigate,
after standing a six hours' contest with another ship. Well, my dear
sir, what became of poor Walsingham? How did this rascally Frenchman
treat his prisoners?"
"Scandalously!" cried Beaumont; "and yet Walsingham is so generous that
he will never let me damn the nation, for what he says was only the
fault of an individual, who disgraced it."
"Well, let me hear and judge for myself," said Mr. Palmer.
"La Force carried the Resolute in triumph into a French port," continued
Mr. Walsingham. "Vain of displaying his prisoners, he marched them up
the country, under pretence that they would not be safe in a sea-port.
Cambray was the town in which they were confined. Walsingham found the
officers of the garrison very civil to him at first; but when they saw
that he was not fond of high play, and that he declined being of their
parties at billiards and _vingt-un_, they grew tired of him; for without
these resources they declared they should perish with _ennui_ in a
country town. Even under the penalty of losing all society, Walsingham
resisted every temptation to game, and submitted to live with the
strictest economy rather than to run in debt."
"But did you never send him any money? Or did not he get your
remittances?" said Mr. Palmer.
"My dear sir, by some delays of letters, we did not hear for two months
where he was imprisoned."
"And he was reduced to the greatest distress," pursued Beaumont; "for he
had shared all he had, to the utmost farthing, with his poor
fellow-prisoners."
"Like a true British sailor!" said Mr. Palmer. "Well, sir, I hope he
contrived to make his escape?"
"No, for he would not break his parole," said Beaumont,
"His parole! I did not know he was on his parole," said Mr. Palmer.
"Then certainly he could not break it."
"He had two tempting opportunities, I can assure you," said Beaumont;
"one offered by the commandant's lady, who was not insensible to his
merit; the other, by the gratitude of some poor servant, whom he had
obliged--Mr. Walsingham can tell you all the particulars."
"No, I need not detail the circumstances; it is enough to tell you, sir,
that he withstood the temptations, would not break his parole, and
remained four months a prisoner in Cambray. Like the officers of the
garrison, he should have drunk or gamed, or else he must have died of
vexation, he says, if he had not fortunately had a taste for reading,
and luckily procured books from a good old priest's library. At the end
of four months the garrison of Cambray was changed; and instead of a set
of dissipated officers, there came a well-conducted regiment, under the
command of M. de Villars, an elderly officer of sense and discretion."
"An excellent man!" cried Beaumont: "I love him with all my soul, though
I never saw him. But I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr.
Walsingham."
"A prattling hairdresser at Cambray first prepossessed M. de Villars in
Walsingham's favour, by relating a number of anecdotes intended to throw
abuse and ridicule upon the English captain, to convict him of
misanthropy and economy; of having had his hair dressed but twice since
he came to Cambray; of never having frequented the society of Madame la
Marquise de Marsillac, the late commandant's lady, for more than a
fortnight after his arrival, and of having actually been detected in
working with his own hand with smiths' and carpenters' tools. Upon the
strength of the hairdresser's information, M. de Villars paid the
English captain a visit; was pleased by his conversation, and by all
that he observed of his conduct and character.
"As M. de Villars was going down stairs, after having spent an evening
with Walsingham, a boy of twelve years old, the son of the master of the
lodging-house, equipped in a military uniform, stood across the
landing-place, as if determined to, stop him. 'Mon petit militaire,'
said the commandant, 'do you mean to dispute my passage?' 'Non, mon
general,' said the boy; 'I know my duty too well. But I post myself here
to demand an audience, for I have a secret of importance to
communicate.' M. de Villars, smiling at the boy's air of consequence,
yet pleased with the steady earnestness of his manner, took him by the
hand into an antechamber, and said that he was ready to listen to
whatever he had to impart. The boy then told him that he had
accidentally overheard a proposal which had been made to facilitate the
English captain's escape, and that the captain refused to comply with
it, because it was not honourable to break his parole. The boy, who had
been struck by the circumstance, and who, besides, was grateful to
Walsingham for some little instances of kindness, spoke with much
enthusiasm in his favour; and, as M. de Villars afterwards repeated,
finished his speech by exclaiming, 'I would give every thing I have in
the world, except my sword and my honour, to procure this English
captain his liberty.'
"M. de Villars was pleased with the boy's manner, and with the fact
which he related; so much so, that he promised, that if Walsingham's
liberty could be obtained he would procure it. 'And you, my good little
friend, shall, if I succeed,' added he, 'have the pleasure of being the
first to tell him the good news.'
"Some days afterwards, the boy burst into Walsingham's room, exclaiming,
'Liberty! liberty! you are at liberty!'--He danced and capered with such
wild joy, that it was some time before Walsingham could obtain any
explanation, or could prevail on him to let him look at a letter which
he held in his hand, flourishing it about in triumph. At last he showed
that it was an order from M. de Villars, for the release of Captain
Walsingham, and of all the English prisoners, belonging to the Resolute,
for whom exchanges had been effected. No favour could be granted in a
manner more honourable to all the parties concerned. Walsingham arrived
in England without any farther difficulties."
"Thank God!" said Mr. Palmer. "Well, now he has touched English ground
again, I have some hopes for him. What next?"
"The first thing he did, of course, was to announce his return to the
Admiralty. A court-martial was held at Portsmouth; and, fortunately for
him, was composed of officers of the highest distinction, so that the
first men in his profession became thoroughly acquainted with the
circumstances of his conduct. The enthusiasm with which his men bore
testimony in his favour was gratifying to his feelings, and the minutes
of the evidence were most honourable to him. The court pronounced, that
Lieutenant Walsingham had done all that could be effected by the most
gallant and judicious officer in the defence of His Majesty's ship
Resolute. The ministry who had employed Captain Campbell were no longer
in place, and one of the Lords of the Admiralty at this time happened
to have had some personal quarrel with him. A few days after the trial,
Walsingham was at a public dinner, at which Campbell's character became
the subject of conversation. Walsingham was warned, in a whisper, that
the first Lord of the Admiralty's private secretary was present, and
was advised to be _prudent_; but Walsingham's prudence was not of that
sort which can coolly hear a worthy man's memory damned with faint
praise; his prudence was not of that sort which can tamely sit by and
see a friend's reputation in danger. With all the warmth and eloquence
of friendship, he spoke in Captain Campbell's defence, and paid a just
and energetic tribute of praise to his memory. He spoke, and not a word
more was said against Campbell. The politicians looked down upon their
plates; and there was a pause of that sort, which sometimes in a
company of interested men of the world results from surprise at the
imprudent honesty of a good-natured novice. Walsingham, as the company
soon afterwards broke up, heard one gentleman say of him to another, as
they went away, 'There's a fellow now, who has ruined himself without
knowing it, and all for a dead man.' It was not without knowing it:
Walsingham was well aware what he hazarded, but he was then, and ever,
ready to sacrifice his own interests in the defence of truth and of a
friend. For two long years afterwards, Walsingham was, in the technical
and elegant phrase, _left on the shelf, and the door of promotion was
shut against him."_
"Yes, and there he might have remained till now," said Beaumont, "if it
had not been for that good Mr. Gaspar, a clerk in one of their offices;
a man who, though used to live among courtiers and people hackneyed in
the political ways of the world, was a plain, warm-hearted friend, a man
of an upright character, who prized integrity and generosity the more
because he met with them so seldom. But I beg your pardon, Mr.
Walsingham; will you go on and tell Mr. Palmer how and why Gaspar served
our friend?"
"One day Walsingham had occasion to go to Mr. Gaspar's office to search
for some papers relative to certain charts which he had drawn, and
intended to present to the Admiralty. In talking of the soundings of
some bay he had taken whilst out with Captain Campbell, he mentioned
him, as he always did, with terms of affection and respect. Mr. Gaspar
immediately asked, 'Are you, sir, that Lieutenant Walsingham, of the
Resolute, who at a public dinner about two years ago made such a
disinterested defence of your captain? If it is in my power to serve
you, depend upon it I will. Leave your charts with me; I think I may
have an opportunity of turning them to your advantage, and that of the
service.' Gaspar, who was thoroughly in earnest, took a happy moment to
present Walsingham's charts before the Admiralty, just at a time when
they were wanted. The Admiralty were glad to employ an officer who had
some local information, and they sent him out in the Dreadnought, a
thirty-six gun frigate, with Captain Jemmison, to the West Indies."
"And what sort of a man was his new captain?" said Mr. Palmer.
"As unlike his old one as possible," said Beaumont.
"Yes," continued Mr. Walsingham; "in every point, except courage,
Captain Jemmison was as complete a contrast as could be imagined to
Captain Campbell. Whatever else he might be, Jemmison was certainly a
man of undaunted courage."
"That's of course, if he was a captain in the British navy," said
Mr. Palmer.
"From his appearance, however, you would never have taken him for a
gallant sailor," said Mr. Walsingham: "abhorring the rough, brutal,
swearing, grog-drinking, tobacco-chewing, race of sea-officers, the Bens
and the Mirvans of former times, Captain Jemmison, resolving, I suppose,
to avoid their faults, went into the contrary extreme of refinement and
effeminacy. A superlative coxcomb, and an epicure more from fashion than
taste, he gloried in descanting, with technical precision, on the merits
of dishes and of cooks. His table, even on shipboard, was to be equalled
in elegance only by his toilet."
"The puppy!" exclaimed Mr. Palmer. "And how could Captain Walsingham go
on with such a coxcomb?"
"Very ill, you may be sure," said Beaumont; "for Walsingham, I'll answer
for it, never could conceal or control his feelings of contempt or
indignation."
"Yet, as Captain Jemmison's lieutenant, he always behaved with perfect
propriety," said Mr. Walsingham, "and bore with his foppery and
impertinence with the patience becoming a subordinate officer to his
superior. Jemmison could not endure a lieutenant whose character and
manners were a continual contrast and reproach to his own, and he
disliked him the more because he could never provoke him to any
disrespect. Jemmison often replied even to Walsingham's silent contempt;
as a French pamphleteer once published a book entitled, _Reponse au
Silence de M. de la Motte_. On some points, where duty and principle
were concerned, Walsingham, however, could not be silent. There was a
lad of the name of Birch on board the Dreadnought, whom Walsingham had
taken under his immediate care, and whom he was endeavouring to train up
in every good habit. Jemmison, to torment Walsingham, made it his
pleasure to counteract him in these endeavours, and continually did all
he could to spoil Birch by foolish indulgence. Walsingham's indignation
was upon these occasions vehement, and his captain and he came to
frequent quarrels. Young Birch, who had sense enough to know which was
his true friend, one day threw himself on his knees to beseech his
lieutenant not to hazard so much on his account, and solemnly swore that
he would never be guilty of the slightest excess or negligence during
the remainder of the voyage. The young man was steady to his promise,
and by his resolution and temper prevented Walsingham and his captain
from coming to a serious rupture. When they arrived at their place of
destination, Jamaica, Captain Jemmison went on shore to divert himself,
and spent his time in great dissipation at Spanish Town, eating,
dressing, dancing, gallanting, and glorying in its being observed by all
the ladies that he had nothing of a sea-captain about him. The other
officers, encouraged by his precept and example, left the ship; but
Walsingham stayed on board, and had severe duty to perform, for he could
not allow the crew to go on shore, because they got into riots with the
townspeople. Soon after their arrival, and even during the course of
their voyage, he had observed among the sailors something like a
disposition to mutiny, encouraged probably by the negligence and
apparent effeminacy of their captain. Though they knew him to be a man
of intrepidity, yet they ridiculed and despised his coxcombry, and his
relaxation of discipline gave them hopes of succeeding in their mutinous
schemes. Walsingham strongly and repeatedly represented to Captain
Jemmison the danger, and remonstrated with him and the other officers
upon the imprudence of leaving the ship at this juncture; but Jemmison,
in a prettily rounded period, protested he saw no penumbra of danger,
and that till he was called upon by Mars, he owned he preferred the
charms of Venus.
"This was vastly elegant; but, nevertheless, it happened one night, when
the captain, after having eaten an admirable supper, was paying his
court to a Creole lady of Spanish Town, news was brought him, that the
crew of the Dreadnought had mutinied, and that Lieutenant Walsingham was
killed. One half of the report was true, and the other nearly so. At
midnight, after having been exhausted during the preceding week by his
vigilance, Walsingham had just thrown himself into his cot, when he was
roused by Birch at his cabin-door, crying, 'A mutiny! a mutiny on
deck!'--Walsingham seized his drawn cutlass, and ran up the ladder,
determined to cut down the ringleader; but just as he reached the top,
the sailors shut down the hatchway, which struck his head with such
violence, that he fell, stunned, and, to all appearance, dead. Birch
contrived, in the midst of the bustle, before he was himself seized by
the mutineers, to convey, by signals to shore, news of what had
happened. But Captain Jemmison could now be of no use. Before he could
take any measures to prevent them, the mutineers weighed anchor, and the
Dreadnought, under a brisk breeze, was out of the bay; all the other
vessels in the harbour taking it for granted that her captain was on
board, and that she was sailing under orders. In the mean time, whilst
Walsingham was senseless, the sailors stowed him into his cabin, and set
a guard over him. The ringleader, Jefferies, a revengeful villain, who
bore malice against him for some just punishment, wanted to murder him,
but the rest would not consent. Some would not dip their hands in blood;
others pleaded for him, and said that he was never cruel. One man urged,
that the lieutenant had been kind to him when he was sick. Another
suggested, that it would be well to keep him alive to manage the ship
for them, in case of difficulties. Conscious of their ignorance, they
acceded to this advice; Jefferies' proposal to murder him was overruled:
and it was agreed to keep Walsingham close prisoner till they should
need his assistance. He had his timekeeper and log-book locked up with
him, which were totally forgotten by these miscreants. Never seaman
prayed more fervently for fair weather than Walsingham now did for a
storm. At last, one night he heard (and he says it was one of the
pleasantest sounds he ever heard in his life) the wind rising. Soon it
blew a storm. He heard one of the sailors say--'A stiff gale, Jack!' and
another--'An ugly night!' Presently, great noise on deck, and the pumps
at work. Every moment he now expected a deputation from the mutineers.
The first person he saw was the carpenter, who came in to knock in the
dead lights in the cabin windows. The man was surly, and would give no
answer to any questions; but Walsingham knew, by the hurry of his work,
that the fellow thought there was no time to be lost. Twice, before he
could finish what he was about, messages came from _Captain Jefferies,_
to order him to something else. Then a violent crash above from the fall
of a mast; and then he heard one cry--'I'll be cursed if I should care,
if we did but know where-abouts we are.' Then all was in such uproar,
that no voices could be distinguished. At last his cabin-door unlocked,
and many voices called upon him at once to come upon deck that instant
and save the ship. Walsingham absolutely refused to do any thing for
them till they returned to their duty, delivered up to him their arms,
and their ringleader, Jefferies. At this answer they stood aghast. Some
tried entreaties, some threats: all in vain. Walsingham coolly said, he
would go to the bottom along with the ship rather than say a word to
save them, till they submitted. The storm blew stronger--the danger
every moment increasing. One of the mutineers came with a drawn cutlass,
another levelled a blunderbuss at Walsingham, swearing to despatch him
that instant, if he would not tell them where they were. 'Murder me, and
you will be hanged; persist in your mutiny, you'll be drowned,' said
Walsingham. 'You'll never make me swerve from my duty--and you know
it--you have my answer.' The enraged sailors seized him in their arms,
and carried him by force upon deck, where the sight of the danger, and
the cries of 'Throw him overboard!--over with him!' only seemed to
fortify his resolution. Not a word, not a sign could they get from him.
The rudder was now unshipped! At this the sailors' fury turned suddenly
upon Jefferies, who between terror and ignorance was utterly
incapacitated. They seized, bound, gave him up to Walsingham, returned
to their duty; and then, and not till then, Walsingham resumed his
command. Walsingham's voice, once more heard, inspired confidence, and
with the hopes revived the exertions of the sailors. I am not seaman
enough to tell you how the ship was saved; but that it was saved, and
saved by Walsingham, is certain. I remember only, that he made the ship
manageable by some contrivance, which he substituted in the place of the
rudder that had been unshipped. The storm abating, he made for the first
port, to repair the ship's damages, intending to return to Jamaica, to
deliver her up to her captain; but, from a vessel they spoke at sea, he
learned that Jemmison was gone to England in a merchantman. To England
then Walsingham prepared to follow."
"And with this rebel crew!" cried Beaumont; "think, Mr. Palmer, what a
situation he was in, knowing, as he did, that every rascal of them would
sooner go to the devil than go home, where they knew they must be tried
for their mutiny."
"Well, sir, well!" said Mr. Palmer. "Did they run away with the ship a
second time? or how did he manage?"
He called them all one morning together on deck; and pointing to the
place where the gunpowder was kept, he said--'I have means of blowing up
the ship. If ever you attempt to mutiny again, the first finger you lay
upon me, I blow her up instantly.' They had found him to be a man of
resolution. They kept to their duty. Not a symptom of disobedience
during the rest of the voyage. In their passage they fell in with an
enemy's ship, far superior to them in force. 'There, my lads!' said
Walsingham, 'if you have a mind to earn your pardons, there's your best
chance. Take her home with you to your captain and your king.' A loud
cheer was their answer. They fought like devils to redeem themselves.
Walsingham--but without stopping to make his panegyric, I need only tell
you, that Walsingham's conduct and intrepidity were this time crowned
with success. He took the enemy's ship, and carried it in triumph into
Portsmouth. Jemmison was on the platform when they came in; and what a
mortifying sight it was to him, and what a proud hour to Walsingham, you
may imagine! Having delivered the Dreadnought and her prize over to his
captain, the next thing to be thought of was the trial of the mutineers.
All except Jefferies obtained a pardon, in consideration of their return
to duty, and their subsequent services. Jefferies was hanged at the
yard-arm. The trial of the mutineers brought on, as Jemmison foresaw it
must, many animadversions on his own conduct. Powerful connexions, and
his friends in place, silenced, as much as possible, the public voice.
Jemmison gave excellent dinners, and endeavoured to drown the whole
affair in his choice Champagne and _London particular Madeira_; so his
health, and success to the British navy, was drunk in bumper toasts."
"Ay, ay, they think to do every thing now in England by dinners, and
bumper toasts, and three times three," said Mr. Palmer.
"But it did not do in this instance," said Beaumont, in a tone of
exultation: "it did not do."
"No," continued Mr. Walsingham; "though Jemmison's dinners went down
vastly well with a party, they did not satisfy the public. The
opposition papers grew clamorous, and the business was taken up so
strongly, and it raised such a cry against the ministry, that they were
obliged to bring Jemmison to a court-martial."
"The puppy! I'm glad of it, with all my soul. And how did he look then?"
said Mr. Palmer.
"Vastly like a gentleman; that was all that even his friends could say
for him. The person he was most afraid of on the trial was Walsingham.
In this apprehension he was confirmed by certain of his friends, who had
attempted to sound Walsingham as to the nature of the evidence he
intended to give. They all reported, that they could draw nothing out of
him, and that he was an impracticable fellow; for his constant answer
was, that his evidence should be given in court, and nowhere else."
"Even to his most intimate friends," interrupted Mr. Beaumont, "even to
me, who was in the house with him all the time the trial was going on,
he did not tell what his evidence would be."
"When the day of trial came," pursued Mr. Walsingham----
"Don't forget Admiral Dashleigh," said Mr. Beaumont.
"No; who can forget him that knows him?" said Walsingham: "a warm,
generous friend, open-hearted as he is brave--he came to Captain
Walsingham the day before the court-martial was to sit. 'I know,
Walsingham, you don't like my cousin Jemmison (said he), nor do I much,
for he is a puppy, and I never could like a puppy, related to me or not;
be that as it may, you'll do him justice, I'm sure; for though he is a
puppy he is a brave fellow--and here, for party purposes, they have
raised a cry of his being a coward, and want to shoot him _pour
encourager les autres_. What you say will damn or save him; and I have
too good an opinion of you to think that any old grudge, though you
might have cause for it, would stand in his way.' Walsingham answered as
usual, that his opinion and his evidence would be known on the day of
trial. Dashleigh went away very ill-satisfied, and persuaded that
Walsingham harboured revenge against his relation. At last, when he was
called upon in court, Walsingham's conduct was both just and generous;
for though his answers spoke the exact truth, yet he brought forward
nothing to the disadvantage of Jemmison, but what truth compelled him to
state, and in his captain's favour; on the contrary, he spoke so
strongly of his intrepidity, and of the gallant actions which in former
instances he had performed in the service, as quite to efface the
recollection of his foppery and epicurism, and, as much as possible, to
excuse his negligence. Walsingham's evidence absolutely confuted the
unjust charge or suspicion of cowardice that had been raised against
Jemmison; and made such an impression in his favour, that, instead of
being dismissed the service, or even having his ship taken from him, as
was expected, Jemmison got off with a reprimand."
"Which I am sure he well deserved," said Mr. Palmer.
"But certainly Walsingham was right not to let him be run down by a
popular cry, especially as he had used him ill," said Mr. Beaumont.
"Well, well!--I don't care about the puppy," cried Mr. Palmer;
"only go on."
"No sooner was the trial over, and the sentence of the court made known,
than Admiral Dashleigh, full of joy, admiration, and gratitude, pushed
his way towards Walsingham, and stretching out his hand,
exclaimed--'Shake hands, Walsingham, and forgive me, or I can't forgive
myself. I suspected you yesterday morning of bearing malice against that
coxcomb, who deserved to be laughed at, but not to be shot. By Jove,
Walsingham, you're an honest fellow, I find.' 'And have you but just
found that out, admiral?' said Walsingham, with a proud smile. 'Harkee,
my lad,' said Dashleigh, calling after him, 'remember, I'm _your_
friend, at all events.--Take it as you will, I'll make you mine yet,
before I've done with you.' Walsingham knew that at this time Admiral
Dashleigh's friends were in power, and that Dashleigh himself had great
influence with the Admiralty; and he probably treated the admiral thus
haughtily, to show that he had no interested views or hopes. Dashleigh
understood this, for he now comprehended Walsingham's character
perfectly. Immediately after the trial, Walsingham was made commander,
in consequence of his having saved the Dreadnought, and his having taken
l'Ambuscade. With this appointment Dashleigh had nothing to do. But he
never ceased exerting himself, employing all the interest of his high
connexions, and all the personal influence of his great abilities, to
have Walsingham made post, and to get him a ship. He succeeded at last;
but he never gave the least hint that it was done by his interest; for,
he said, he knew that Walsingham had such nice notions, and was such a
proud principled fellow, that he would not enjoy his promotion, if he
thought he owed it to any thing upon earth but his own merit. So a
handsome letter was written by the secretary of the Admiralty to Captain
Walsingham, by their lordships' desire, informing him, 'that in
consideration of his services and merit, his majesty had been pleased to
make him post-captain, and to appoint him to the command of l'Ambuscade
(the prize he took), which would be sent out on the first occasion.' The
secretary 'begged leave to add expressions of his private satisfaction
on an appointment so likely to be advantageous to the public,' &c. In
short, it was all done so properly and so plausibly, that even
Walsingham never suspected any secret influence, nor did he find out the
part Dashleigh had taken in the business till several months afterwards,
when a _discreet_ friend mentioned it by accident."
"I was that discreet friend," said Mr. Beaumont.
"Well, all this is very good, but there's no love in this Story," said
Mr. Palmer. "I hope your hero is not too proud to fall in love?"
"Too proud!--We are told, you know, that the greatest hero, in the
intervals of war, resigned
'To tender passions all his mighty mind.'"
"Tender passions!--Captain Walsingham is in love, then, hey?" said Mr.
Palmer. "And may I ask--Bless me! I shall be very sorry if it is with
any body but--may I ask to whom he is attached?"
"That is a question that I am not quite at liberty perhaps to answer,"
said Mr. Walsingham. "During the interval between his return in the
Dreadnought and his being appointed to l'Ambuscade, an interval of about
eighteen months, which he spent in the country here with me, he had time
to become thoroughly acquainted with a very amiable young lady--"
"A very amiable young lady! and in this neighbourhood?" interrupted Mr.
Palmer; "it must be the very person I mean, the very person I wish."
"Do not ask me any more," said Mr. Walsingham; "for my friend never
declared his attachment, and I have no right to declare it for him. He
was not, at the time I speak of, in circumstances to marry; therefore he
honourably concealed, or rather suppressed, his passion, resolving not
to attempt to engage the young lady's affections till he should have
made a fortune sufficient to support her in her own rank in life."
"Well, now, that's all done, thank Heaven!" cried Palmer: "he has
fortune enough now, or we can help him out, you know. This is excellent,
excellent!--Come, is it not time for us to go to the ladies? I'm
impatient to tell this to Mrs. Beaumont."
"Stay, my good Mr. Palmer," said Mr. Walsingham. "What are you
going to do?"
"Let me alone, let me alone--I'll only tell what I guess--depend upon
it, I guess right--and it may do a great deal of good to tell it to
Mrs. Beaumont, and it will give her a great deal of pleasure--trust
me--trust me."
"I do trust _you_--but perhaps you may be mistaken."
"Not at all, not at all, depend upon it; so let me go to her this
minute."
"But stop, my dear sir," cried Mr. Beaumont, "stop for another reason;
let me beg you to sit down again--I am not clear that Captain Walsingham
is not at this instant in love with--perhaps, as it is reported,
married to a Spanish lady, whom he has carried off out of a convent
at ----, and whom I understand he is bringing home with him."
"Heyday! a Spanish lady!" said Mr. Palmer, returning slowly to his seat
with a fallen countenance. "How's this?--By St. George, this is unlucky!
But how's this, I say?"
"You did not let us finish our story," said Mr. Beaumont, "or we should
have told you."
"Let me hear the end of it now," said Mr. Palmer, sitting down again,
and preparing himself with several pinches of snuff. But just at this
instant a servant came to say that coffee was ready.
"I will never stir from this spot for coffee or any thing else," said
Mr. Palmer, "till I know the history of the Spanish lady."
"Then the shortest and best way I have of telling it to you is, to beg
you to read this letter, which contains all I know of the matter," said
Mr. Beaumont. "This letter is from young Birch to his parents; we have
never heard a syllable directly from Walsingham himself on this subject.
Since he reached Lisbon, we have had no letters from him, except that
short epistle which brought us an account of his taking the
treasure-ship. But we shall see him soon, and know the truth of this
story; and hear whether he prefers his Spanish or his English mistress."
"'Fore George! I wish this Spanish woman had stayed in her convent,"
said Mr. Palmer; "I don't like runaway ladies. But let us see what this
letter says for her."
The letter is the same that Mr. Beaumont read some time ago, therefore
it need not here be inserted. Before Mr. Palmer had finished perusing
it, a second message came to say that the ladies waited tea, and that
Mrs. Beaumont wished not to be late going home, as there was no moon.
Mr. Palmer, nevertheless, finished the letter before he stirred: and
then, with a heavy sigh, he rose and said, "I now wish, more than ever,
that our captain would come home this night, before I go, and clear up
this business. I don't like this Spanish plot, this double intrigue. Ah,
dear me!--I shall be obliged to sail--I shall be in Jamaica before the
fifth act."
"How expectation loads the wings of time!" exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, as
the gentlemen entered the drawing-room. "Here we have been all day
expecting our dear Captain Walsingham, and the time has seemed so
long!--The only time I ever found long in this house."
"I should like to know," said Mr. Walsingham, after a bow of due
acknowledgment to Mrs. Beaumont for her compliment, "I should like to
know whether time appears to pass more slowly to those that hope, or
those that fear?"
Mrs. Beaumont handed coffee to Mr. Palmer, without attempting to answer
this question.
"To those that hope, I should think," said Mr. Palmer; "for hope long
deferred maketh the heart sick; and time, I can answer for it, passes
most slowly to those who are sick."
"'Slow as the year's dull circle seems to run,
When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one,'"
said Mr. Walsingham, smiling, as he looked at young Beaumont. "But I
think it is the mixture of fear with hope that makes time appear to
pass slowly."
"And is hope ever free from that mixture?" said Miss Walsingham. "Does
not hope without fear become certainty, and fear without hope despair?
Can hope ever be perfectly free from some mixture of fear?"
"Oh, dear me! yes, to be sure," said Miss Hunter; "for hope's the most
opposite thing that ever was to fear; as different as black and white;
_for_, surely, every body knows that hope is just the contrary to fear;
and when one says, _I hope_, one does not ever mean _I fear_--surely,
you know, Mrs. Beaumont?"
"I am the worst metaphysician in the world," said Mrs. Beaumont; "I have
not head enough to analyze my heart."
"Nor I neither," said Miss Hunter: "Heigho!" (very audibly.)
"Hark!" cried Mr. Beaumont, "I think I hear a horse galloping. It is he!
it is Walsingham!"
Out ran Beaumont, full speed, to meet his friend; whilst, with, more
sober joy, Mr. Walsingham waited on the steps, where all the company
assembled, Mr. Palmer foremost, with a face full of benevolent pleasure;
Mrs. Beaumont congratulating every body, but nobody listening to her;
luckily for her, all were too heartily occupied with their own feelings
to see how ill her countenance suited her words. The sound of the
galloping of the horse ceased for a minute--then recommenced; but before
it could be settled whether it was coming nearer or going farther away,
Mr. Beaumont returned with a note in his hand.
"Not Walsingham--only Birch--confound him!" said Mr. Beaumont, out of
breath. "Confound him, what a race I took, and how disappointed I was
when I saw Birch's face; and yet it is no fault of his, poor lad!"
"But why did not he come up to the house? Why did not you let us see
him?" said Mr. Walsingham.
"I could not keep him, he was in such a hurry to go home to his father
and mother, he would only stop to give this note."
"From Walsingham? Read, quick."
"Plymouth, 5 o'clock, A.M. just landed.
"Dear friends, I cannot have the pleasure of seeing you, as I had hoped
to do, this day--I am obliged to go to London instantly on business that
must not be delayed--Cannot tell when I can be with you--hope in a few
days--Well and happy, and ever yours, H. WALSINGHAM."
All stood silent with looks of disappointment, except Mrs. Beaumont, who
reiterated, "What a pity! What a sad pity! What a disappointment! What a
terrible disappointment!"
"Business!" said Mr. Beaumont: "curse his business! he should think of
his friends first."
"Most likely his business is for his friends," said Miss Walsingham.
"That's right, my dear little defender of the absent," said Mr.
Walsingham.
"Business!" repeated Mr. Palmer. "Hum! I like business better than
pleasure--I will be patient, if it is really business that keeps him
away from us."
"Depend upon it," said Miss Walsingham, "nothing but business can keep
him away from us; his pleasure is always at home."
"I am thinking," said Mr. Palmer, drawing Mr. Walsingham aside, "I am
thinking whether he has really brought this Spanish lady home with
him, and what will become of her--of--him, I mean. I wish I was not
going to Jamaica!"
"Then, my dear sir, where is the necessity of your going?"
"My health--my health--the physicians say I cannot live in England."
Mr. Walsingham, who had but little faith in physicians, laughed, and
exclaimed, "But, my dear sir, when you see so many men alive in England
at this instant, why should you believe in the impossibility of your
living even in this pestiferous country?"
Mr. Palmer half smiled, felt for his snuff-box, and then replied, "I am
sure I should like to live in England, if my health would let me; but,"
continued he, his face growing longer, and taking the hypochondriac cast
as he pronounced the word, "_but, _Mr. Walsingham, you don't consider
that my health is really--really--"
"Really very good, I see," interrupted Mr. Walsingham, "and I am
heartily glad to see it."
"Sir! sir! you do not see it, I assure you. I have a great opinion of
your judgment, but as you are not a physician--"
"And because I have not taken out my diploma, you think I can neither
see nor understand," interrupted Mr. Walsingham. "But, nevertheless,
give me leave to feel your pulse."
"Do you really understand a pulse?" said Mr. Palmer, baring his wrist,
and sighing.
"As good a pulse as ever man had," pronounced Mr. Walsingham.
"You don't say so? why the physicians tell me--"
"Never mind what they tell you--if they told you the _truth_, they'd
tell you they want fees."
Mrs. Beaumont, quite startled by the tremendously loud voice in which
Mr. Walsingham pronounced the word _truth_, rose, and rang the bell for
her carriage.
"Mr. Palmer," said she, "I am afraid we must run away, for I dread the
night air for invalids."
"My good madam, I am at your orders," answered Mr. Palmer, buttoning
himself up to the chin.
"Mrs. Beaumont, surely you don't think this gentleman an invalid?" said
Mr. Walsingham.
"I only wish he would not think himself such," replied Mrs. Beaumont.
"Ah! my dear friends," said Mr. Palmer, "I really am, I certainly am a
sad--sad--"
"Hypochondriac," said Mr. Walsingham. "Pardon me--you are indeed, and
every body is afraid to tell you so but myself."
Mrs. Beaumont anxiously looked out of the window to see if her carriage
was come to the door.
"Hypochondriac! not in the least, my dear sir," said Mr. Palmer. "If
you were to hear what Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- say of my case, and your
own Dr. Wheeler here, who has a great reputation too--shall I tell you
what he says?"
In a low voice, Mr. Palmer, holding Mr. Walsingham by the button,
proceeded to recapitulate some of Dr. Wheeler's prognostics; and at
every pause, Mr. Walsingham turned impatiently, so as almost to twist
off the detaining button, repeating, in the words of the king of Prussia
to his physician, "_C'est un ane! C'est un ane! C'est un ane!_"--"Pshaw!
I don't understand French," cried Mr. Palmer, angrily. His warmth
obliged him to think of unbuttoning his coat, which operation (after
stretching his neckcloth to remove an uneasy feeling in his throat) he
was commencing, when Mrs. Beaumont graciously stopped his hand.
"The carriage is at the door, my dear sir:--instead of unbuttoning your
coat, had not you better put this cambric handkerchief round your throat
before we go into the cold air?"
Mr. Palmer put it on, as if in defiance of Mr. Walsingham, and followed
Mrs. Beaumont, who led him off in triumph. Before he reached the
carriage-door, however, his anger had spent its harmless force; and
stopping to shake hands with him, Mr. Palmer said, "My good Mr.
Walsingham, I am obliged to you. I am sure you wish me well, and I thank
you for speaking so freely; I love honest friends--but as to my being a
hypochondriac, believe me, you are mistaken!"
"And as to Dr. Wheeler," said Mrs. Beaumont, as she drew up the glass of
the carriage, and as they drove from the door, "Dr. Wheeler certainly
does not deserve to be called _un ane,_ for he is a man of whose medical
judgment I have the highest opinion. Though I am sure I am very candid
to acknowledge it in the present case, when his opinion is so much
against my wishes, and all our wishes, and must, I fear, deprive us so
soon of the company of our dear Mr. Palmer."
"Why, yes, I must go, I must go to Jamaica," said Mr. Palmer in a more
determined tone than he had yet spoken on the subject.
Mrs. Beaumont silently rejoiced; and as her son imprudently went on
arguing in favour of his own wishes, she leaned back in the carriage,
and gave herself up to a pleasing reverie, in which she anticipated the
successful completion of all her schemes. Relieved from the apprehension
that Captain Walsingham's arrival might disconcert her projects, she was
now still further re-assured by Mr. Palmer's resolution to sail
immediately. One day more, and she was safe. Let Mr. Palmer but sail
without seeing Captain Walsingham, and this was all Mrs. Beaumont asked
of fortune; the rest her own genius would obtain. She was so absorbed in
thought, that she did not know she was come home, till the carriage
stopped at her door. Sometimes, indeed, her reverie had been interrupted
by Mr. Palmer's praises of the Walsinghams, and by a conversation which
she heard going on about Captain Walsingham's life and adventures: but
Captain Walsingham was safe in London; and whilst he was at that
distance, she could bear to hear his eulogium. Having lamented that she
had been deprived of her dear Amelia all this day, and having arranged
her plan of operations for the morrow, Mrs. Beaumont retired to rest.
And even in dreams her genius invented fresh expedients, wrote notes of
apology, or made speeches of circumvention.
CHAPTER XI.
"And now, as oft in some distempered state,
On one nice trick depends the general fate."--POPE.
That old politician, the cardinal of Lorraine, used to say, that "a lie
believed but for one hour doth many times in a nation produce effects
of seven years' continuance." At this rate what wonderful effects might
our heroine have produced, had she practised in public life, instead of
confining her genius to family politics! The game seemed now in her own
hands. The day, the important day, on which all her accounts with her
son were to be settled; the day when Mr. Palmer's will was to be
signed, the last day he was to stay in England, arrived. Mr. Beaumont's
birthday, his coming of age, was of course hailed with every possible
demonstration of joy. The village bells rang, the tenants were invited
to a dinner and a dance, and an ox was to be roasted whole; and the
preparations for rejoicing were heard all over the house. Mr. Palmer's
benevolent heart was ever ready to take a share in the pleasures of his
fellow-creatures, especially in the festivities of the lower classes.
He appeared this morning in high good humour. Mrs. Beaumont, with a
smile on her lips, yet with a brow of care, was considering how she
could make pleasure subservient to interest, and how she could get
_business_ done in the midst of the amusements of the day. Most
auspiciously did her day of business begin by Mr. Palmer's declaring to
her that his will was actually made; that with the exception of certain
legacies, he had left his whole fortune to her during her life, with
remainder to her son and daughter. "By this arrangement," continued he,
"I trust I shall ultimately serve my good friends the Walsinghams, as I
wish: for though I have not seen as much of that family as I should
have been glad to have done, yet the little I have seen convinces me
that they are worthy people."
"The most worthy people upon earth. You know I have the greatest regard
for them," said Mrs. Beaumont.
"I am really sorry," pursued Mr. Palmer, "that I have not been able to
make acquaintance with Captain Walsingham. Mr. Walsingham told me his
whole history yesterday, and it has prepossessed me much in his favour."
"He is, indeed, a charming, noble-hearted young hero," said Mrs.
Beaumont; "and I regret, as much as you do, that you cannot see him
before you leave England."
"However," continued Mr. Palmer, "as I was saying, the Walsinghams will,
I trust, be the better sooner or later by me; for I think I foresee that
Captain Walsingham, if a certain Spanish lady were out of the question,
would propose for Amelia, and would persuade her to give up this foolish
fancy of hers for that baronet."
Mrs. Beaumont shook her head, as if she believed this could not
possibly be done.
"Well, well, if it can't be, it can't. The girl's inclination must not
be controlled. I don't wonder, however, that you are vexed at missing
such a husband for her as young Walsingham. But, my good madam, we must
make the best of it--let the girl marry her baronet. I have left a
legacy of some thousands to Captain Walsingham, as a token of my esteem
for his character; and I am sure, my dear Mrs. Beaumont, his interests
are in good hands when I leave them in yours. In the mean time, I wish
you, as the representative of my late good friend, Colonel Beaumont, to
enjoy all I have during your life."
Mrs. Beaumont poured forth such a profusion of kind and grateful
expressions, that Mr. Palmer was quite disconcerted. "No more of this,
my dear madam, no more of this. But there was something I was going to
say, that has gone out of my head. Oh, it was, that the Walsinghams
will, I think, stand a good chance of being the better for me in
another way."
"How?"
"Why you have seen so much more of them than I have--don't you, my dear
madam, see that Miss Walsingham has made a conquest of your son? I
thought I was remarkably slow at seeing these things, and yet I saw it."
"Miss Walsingham is a prodigious favourite of mine. But you know
Edward is so young, and men don't like, now-a-days, to marry young,"
said Mrs. Beaumont.
"Well, let them manage their affairs their own way," said Mr. Palmer;
"all I wish upon earth is to see them happy, or rather to hear of their
happiness, for I shall not see it you know in Jamaica."
"Alas!" said Mrs. Beaumont, in a most affectionate tone, and with a
sigh that seemed to come from her heart; "alas! that is such a
melancholy thought."
Mr. Palmer ended the conversation by inquiring whom he had best ask to
witness his will. Mrs. Beaumont proposed Captain Lightbody and Dr.
Wheeler. The doctor was luckily in the house, for he had been sent for
this morning, to see her poor Amelia, who had caught cold yesterday, and
had a slight feverish complaint.
This was perfectly true. The anxiety that Amelia had suffered of
late--the fear of being forced or ensnared to marry a man she
disliked--apprehensions about the Spanish incognita, and at last the
certainty that Captain Walsingham would not arrive before Mr. Palmer
should have left England, and that consequently the hopes she had
formed from this benevolent friend's interference were vain--all these
things had overpowered Amelia; she had passed a feverish night, and was
really ill. Mrs. Beaumont at any other time would have been much
alarmed; for, duplicity out of the question, she was a fond mother: but
she now was well contented that her daughter should have a day's
confinement to her room, for the sake of keeping her safe out of the
way. So leaving poor Amelia to her feverish thoughts, we proceed with
the business of the day.
Dr. Wheeler, Captain Lightbody, and Mr. Twigg witnessed the will; it
was executed, and a copy of it deposited with Mrs. Beaumont. This was
one great point gained. The next object was her jointure. She had
employed her convenient tame man[3], Captain Lightbody, humbly to
suggest to her son, that some increase of jointure would be proper; and
she was now in anxiety to know how these hints, and others which had
been made by more remote means, would operate. As she was waiting to
see Mr. Lightbody in her dressing-room, to hear the result of his
_suggestions_, the door opened.
"Well, Lightbody! come in--what success?"
She stopped short, for it was not Captain Lightbody, it was her son.
Without taking any notice of what she said, he advanced towards her, and
presented a deed.
"You will do me the favour, mother, to accept of this addition to your
jointure," said he. "It was always my intention to do this, the moment
it should be in my power; and I had flattered myself that you would not
have thought it necessary to suggest to me what I knew I ought to do, or
to hint to me your wishes by any intermediate person."
Colouring deeply, for it hurt her conscience to be found out, Mrs.
Beaumont was upon the point of disavowing her emissary, but she
recollected that the words which she had used when her son was coming
into the room might have betrayed her. On the other hand, it was not
certain that he had heard them. She hesitated. From the shame of a
disavowal, which would have answered no purpose, but to sink her lower
in her son's opinion, she was, however, saved by his abrupt sincerity.
"Don't say any thing more about it, dear mother," cried he, "but pardon
me the pain I have given you at a time when indeed I wished only to give
pleasure. Promise me, that in future you will let me know your wishes
directly, and from your own lips."
"Undoubtedly--depend upon it, my dearest son. I am quite overpowered.
The fact was, that I could not, however really and urgently necessary it
was to me, bring myself to mention with my own lips what, as a direct
request from me, I knew you could not and would not refuse, however
inconvenient it might be to you to comply. On this account, and on this
account only, I wished you not to know my wants from myself, but from an
intermediate friend."
"Friend!"--Mr. Beaumont could not help repeating with an emphasis
of disdain.
"_Friend_, I only said by courtesy; but I wished you to know my wants
from an intermediate person, that you might not feel yourself in any way
bound, or called upon, and that the refusal might be implied and tacit,
as it were, so that it could lead to no unpleasant feelings between us."
"Ah! my dear mother," said Mr. Beaumont, "I have not your knowledge of
the world, or of human nature; but from all I have heard, seen, and
felt, I am convinced that more unpleasant feelings are created in
families, by these false delicacies, and managements, and hints, and
go-between friends by courtesy, than ever would have been caused by the
parties speaking directly to one another, and telling the plain truth
about their thoughts and wishes. Forgive me if I speak too plainly at
this moment; as we are to live together, I hope, many years, it may
spare us many an unhappy hour."
Mrs. Beaumont wiped her eyes. Her son found it difficult to go on, and
yet, upon his own principles, it was right to proceed.
"Amelia, ma'am! I find she is ill this morning."
"Yes--poor child!"
"I hope, mother--"
"Since," interrupted Mrs. Beaumont, "my dear son wishes always to hear
from me the plain and direct truth, I must tell him, that, as the
guardian of his sister, I think myself accountable to no one for my
conduct with respect to her; and that I should look upon any
interference as an unkind and unjustifiable doubt of my affection for my
daughter. Rest satisfied with this assurance, that her happiness is, in
all I do, my first object; and as I have told her a thousand times, no
force shall be put on her inclinations."
"I have no more to say, no more to ask," said Mr. Beaumont. "This is a
distinct, positive declaration, in which I will confide, and, in future,
not suffer appearances to alarm me. A mother would not keep the word of
promise to the ear, and break it to the hope."
Mrs. Beaumont, feeling herself change countenance, made an attempt to
blow her nose, and succeeded in hiding her face with her handkerchief.
"With respect to myself," continued Mr. Beaumont, "I should also say,
lest you should be in any doubt concerning my sentiments, that though I
have complied with your request to delay for a few weeks--"
"_That_ you need not repeat, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Beaumont.
"I understand all that perfectly."
"Then at the end of this month I shall--and, I hope, with your entire
approbation, propose for Miss Walsingham."
"Time enough," said Mrs. Beaumont, smiling, and tapping her son
playfully on the shoulder, "time enough to talk of that when the end of
the month comes. How often have I seen young men like you change their
minds, and fall in and out of love in the course of one short month! At
any rate," continued Mrs. Beaumont, "let us pass to the order of the
day; for we have time enough to settle other matters; but the order of
the day--a tiresome one, I confess--is to settle accounts."
"I am ready--"
"So am I."
"Then let us go with the accounts to Mr. Palmer, who is also ready,
I am sure."
"But, before we go," said Mrs. Beaumont, whispering, "let us settle what
is to be said about the debts--_your_ debts you know. I fancy you'll
agree with me, that the less is said about this the better; and that, in
short, the best will be to say nothing."
"Why so, madam? Surely you don't think I mean to conceal my debts from
our friend Mr. Palmer, at the very moment when I profess to tell him all
my affairs, and to settle accounts with him and you, as my guardians!"
"With him? But he has never acted, you know, as one of the guardians;
therefore you are not called upon to settle accounts with him."
"Then why, ma'am, did you urge him to come down from London, to be
present at the settlement of these accounts?"
"As a compliment, and because I wish him to be present, as your
father's friend; but it is by no means essential that he should know
every detail."
"I will do whichever you please, ma'am; I will either settle accounts
with or without him."
"Oh! _with_ him, that is, in his presence, to be sure."
"Then he must know the whole."
"Why so? Your having contracted such debts will alter his opinion of
your prudence and of mine, and may, perhaps, essentially alter--alter--"
"His will? Be it so; that is the worst that can happen. As far as I am
concerned, I would rather a thousand times it were so, than deceive him
into a better opinion of me than I deserve."
"Nobly said! so like yourself, and like every thing I could wish: but,
forgive me, if I did for you, what indeed I would not wish you to do for
yourself. I have already told Mr. Palmer that you had no embarrassments;
therefore, you cannot, and I am sure would not, unsay what I have said."
Mr. Beaumont stood fixed in astonishment.
"But why, mother, did not you tell him the whole?"
"My dear love, delicacy prevented me. He offered to relieve you from any
embarrassments, if you had any; but I, having too much delicacy and
pride to let my son put himself under pecuniary obligations, hastily
answered, that you had no debts; for there was no other reply to be
made, without offending poor Palmer, and hurting his generous feelings,
which I would not do for the universe: and I considered too, that as all
Palmer's fortune will come to us in the end--"
"Well, ma'am," interrupted Mr. Beaumont, impatient of all these glosses
and excuses, "the plain state of the case is, that I cannot contradict
what my mother has said; therefore I will not settle accounts at all
with Mr. Palmer."
"And what excuse _can_ I make to him, after sending for him express
from London?"
"That I must leave to you, mother."
"And what reason _can_ I give for thus withdrawing our family-confidence
from such an old friend, and at the very moment when he is doing so much
for us all?"
"That I must leave to you, mother. I withdraw no confidence. I have
pretended none--I will break none."
"Good Heavens! was not all I did and said for _your_ interest?"
"Nothing can be for my interest that is not for my honour, and for
yours, mother. But let us never go over the business again. Now to the
order of the day."
"My dear, dear son," said Mrs. Beaumont, "don't speak so roughly, so
cruelly to me."
Suddenly softened, by seeing the tears standing in his mother's eyes, he
besought her pardon for the bluntness of his manner, and expressed his
entire belief in her affection and zeal for his interests; but, on the
main point, that he would not deceive Mr. Palmer, or directly or
indirectly assert a falsehood, Mr. Beaumont was immoveable. In the midst
of her entreaties a message came from Mr. Palmer, to say that he was
waiting for the accounts, which Mrs. Beaumont wished to settle. "Well,"
said she, much perplexed, "well, come down to him--come, for it is
impossible for me to find any excuse after sending for him from London;
he would think there was something worse than there really is.
Stay--I'll go down first, and sound him; and if it won't do without the
accounts, do you come when I ring the bell; then all I have for it is to
run my chance. Perhaps he may never recollect what passed about your
debts, for the dear good old soul has not the best memory in the world;
and if he should obstinately remember, why, after all, it's only a bit
of false delicacy, and a white lie for a friend and a son, and we can
colour it."
Down went Mrs. Beaumont to sound Mr. Palmer; but though much might be
expected from her address, yet she found it unequal to the task of
convincing this gentleman's plain good sense that it would fatigue him
to see those accounts, which he came so many miles on purpose to settle.
Perceiving him begin to waken to the suspicion that she had some
interest in suppressing the accounts, and hearing him, in an altered
tone, ask, "Madam, is there any mystery in these accounts, that I must
not see them?" she instantly rang the bell, and answered, "Oh, none;
none in the world; only we thought--that is, I feared it might fatigue
you too much, my dear friend, just the day before your journey, and I
was unwilling to lose so many hours of your good company; but since you
are so very kind--here's my son and the papers."
CHAPTER XII.
"A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery."
To the settlement of accounts they sat down in due form; and it so
happened, that though this dear good old soul had not the best memory in
the world, yet he had an obstinate recollection of every word Mrs.
Beaumont had said about her son's having no debts or embarrassments. And
great and unmanageable was his astonishment, when the truth came to
light. "It is not," said he, turning to Mr. Beaumont, "that I am
astonished at your having debts; I am sorry for that, to be sure; but
young men are often a little extravagant or so, and I dare
say--particularly as you are so candid and make no excuses about it--I
dare say you will be more prudent in future, and give up the race-horses
as you promise. But--why did not Madam Beaumont tell me the truth? Why
make a mystery, when I wanted nothing but to serve my friends? It was
not using me well--it was not using yourself well. Madam, madam, I am
vexed to the heart, and would not for a thousand pounds--ay, fool as I
am, not for ten thousand pounds, this had happened to me from my good
friend the colonel's widow--a man that would as soon have cut his hand
off. Oh, madam! Madam Beaumont! you have struck me a hard blow at my
time of life. Any thing but this I could have borne; but to have one's
confidence and old friendships shaken at my time of life!"
Mrs. Beaumont was, in her turn, in unfeigned astonishment; for Mr.
Palmer took the matter more seriously, and seemed more hurt by this
discovery of a trifling deviation from truth, than she had foreseen, or
than she could have conceived to be possible, in a case where neither
his interest nor any one of his passions was concerned. It was in vain
that she palliated and explained, and talked of delicacy, and
generosity, and pride, and maternal feelings, and the feelings of a
friend, and all manner of fine and double-refined sentiments; still Mr.
Palmer's sturdy plain sense could not be made to comprehend that a
falsehood is not a falsehood, or that deceiving a friend is using him
well. Her son suffered for her, as his countenance and his painful and
abashed silence plainly showed.
"And does not even my son say any thing for me? Is this friendly?" said
she, unable to enter into his feelings, and thinking that the part of a
friend was to make apologies, right or wrong.--Mr. Palmer shook hands
with Mr. Beaumont, and, without uttering a syllable, they understood one
another perfectly. Mr. Beaumont left the room; and Mrs. Beaumont burst
into tears. Mr. Palmer, with great good-nature, tried to assuage that
shame and compunction which he imagined that she felt. He observed,
that, to be sure, she must feel mortified and vexed with herself, but
that he was persuaded nothing but some mistaken notion of delicacy could
have led her to do what her principles must condemn. Immediately she
said all that she saw would please Mr. Palmer; and following the lead
of his mind, she at last confirmed him in the opinion, that this was an
accidental not an habitual deviation from truth. His confidence in her
was broken, but not utterly destroyed.
"As to the debt," resumed Mr. Palmer, "do not let that give you a
moment's concern; I will put that out of the question in a few minutes.
My share in the cargo of the Anne, which I see is just safely arrived
in the Downs, will more than pay this debt. Your son shall enter upon
his estate unencumbered. No, no--don't thank me; I won't cheat you of
your thanks; it is your son must thank me for this. I do it on his
account. I like the young man. There is an ingenuousness, an honourable
frankness about him, that I love. Instead of his bond for the money, I
shall ask his promise never to have any thing more to do with
race-horses or Newmarket; and his promise I shall think as good as if
it were his bond. Now I am not throwing money away; I'm not doing an
idle ostentatious thing, but one that may, and I hope will, be
essentially useful. For, look you here, my good--look here, Mrs.
Beaumont: a youth who finds himself encumbered with debt on coming to
his estate is apt to think of freeing himself by marrying a fortune
instead of a woman; now instead of freeing a man, this fetters him for
life: and what sort of a friend must that be, who, if he could prevent
it, would let this be done for a few thousand pounds? So I'll go before
I take another pinch of snuff, and draw him an order upon the cargo of
the Anne, lest I should forget it in the hurry of packing and taking
leave, and all those uncomfortable things."
He left _Madam_ Beaumont to her feelings, or her reflections; and, in a
few minutes, with an order for the money in his hand, went over the
house in search of his young friend. Mr. Beaumont came out of his
sister's room on hearing himself called.
"Here," said Mr. Palmer, "is a little business for you to do. Read this
order over; see that it is right, and endorse it--mind--and never let
me hear one word more about it--only by way of acknowledgment--ask your
mother what you are to give me. But don't read it till you are out of my
sight--Is Amelia up? Can I see her?"
"Yes; up and in her dressing-room. Do, dear sir, go in and see her, for
my mother says she is too feverish to leave her room to-day; but I am
sure that it will make her ten times worse to be prevented from seeing
you the last day you are with us."
"Does the little gipsy then care so much for me?--that's fair; for I am
her friend, and will prove it to her, by giving up my own fancies to
hers: so trust me with her, _tete-a-tete,--young gentleman; go off, if
you please, and do your own business."
Mr. Palmer knocked at Amelia's door, and fancying he heard an answer of
admittance, went in.
"Oh, Mr. Palmer, my good Mr. Palmer, is it you?"
"Yes; but you seem not above half to know whether you are glad or sorry
to see your good Mr. Palmer; for while you hold out your hand, you turn
away your face from me.--Dear, dear! what a burning hand, and how the
pulse goes and flutters! What does Dr. Wheeler say to this? I am a bit
of a physician myself--let me look at you. What's this? eyes as red as
ferret's--begging your eyes' pardon, young lady--What's this about?
Come," said he, drawing a chair and sitting down close beside her, "no
mysteries--no mysteries--I hate mysteries--besides, we have not time
for them. Consider, I go to-morrow, and have all my shirts to pack up:
ay, smile, lady, as your father used to do; and open your whole heart to
me, as he always did. Consider me as an old friend."
"I do consider you as a sincere, excellent friend," said Amelia; "but--"
Amelia knew that she could not explain herself without disobeying, and
perhaps betraying, her mother.
"No _buts_," said Mr. Palmer, taking hold of her hand. "Come, my little
Amelia, before you have put that ring on and off your pretty finger
fifty times more, tell me whom you would wish to put a ring on this
finger for life?"
"Ah! that is the thing _I cannot_ tell you!" said Amelia. "Were I alone
concerned, I would tell you every thing; but--ask me no more, I cannot
tell you the whole truth."
"Then there's something wrong somewhere or other. Whenever people tell
me they cannot speak the truth, I always say, then there's something
wrong. Give me leave, Amelia, to ask--"
"Don't question me," said Amelia: "talk to my mother. I don't know how I
ought to answer you."
"_Not know how!_ 'Fore George! this is strange! A strange house, where
one can't get at the simplest truth without a world of difficulty--
mother and daughter all alike; not one of 'em but the son can, for the
soul of 'em, give a plain answer to a plain question. _Not know how!_
as if it was a science to tell the truth. Not know how! as if a person
could not talk to me, honest old Richard Palmer, without _knowing how!_
as if it was how to baffle a lawyer on a cross-examination--_Not know
how_ to answer one's own friend! Ah! this is not the way your father
and I used to go on, Miss Beaumont. Nay, nay, don't cry now, or that
will finish oversetting the little temper I have left, for I can't bear
to see a woman cry, especially a young woman like you; it breaks my
heart, old as it is, and fool that I am, that ought to know your sex
better by this time than to let a few tears drown my common sense. Well,
young lady, be that as it may, since you won't tell me your mind, I must
tell you your mind, for I happen to know it--Yes, I do--your mother bid
me spare your delicacy, and I would, but that I have not time; besides,
I don't understand, nor see what good is got, but a great deal of
mischief, by these cursed new-fashioned delicacies: wherefore, in plain
English, I tell you, I don't like Sir John Hunter, and I do like Captain
Walsingham; and I did wish you married to Captain Walsingham--you need
not start so, for I say _did_--I don't wish it now; for since your heart
is set upon Sir John Hunter, God forbid I should want to give Captain
Walsingham a wife without a heart. So I have only to add, that
notwithstanding my own fancy or judgment, I have done my best to persuade
your mother to let you have the man, or the baronet, of your choice. I
will go farther: I'll make it a point with her, and bring you both
together; for there's no other way, I see, of understanding you; and get
a promise of her consent; and then I hope I shall leave you all
satisfied, and without any mysteries. And, in the mean time," added Mr.
Palmer, taking out of his coat pocket a morocco leather case, and
throwing it down on the table before Amelia, "every body should be made
happy their own way: there are some diamonds for Lady Hunter, and God
bless you."
"Oh, sir, stay!" cried Amelia, rising eagerly; "dear, good Mr. Palmer,
keep your diamonds, and leave me your esteem and love."
"That I can't, unless you speak openly to me. It is out of nature.
Don't kneel--don't. God bless you! young lady, you have my pity; for
indeed," turning and looking at her, "you seem very miserable, and look
very sincere."
"If my mother was here!--I _must_ see my mother," exclaimed Amelia.
"Where's the difficulty? I'll go for her this instant," said Mr. Palmer,
who was not a man to let a romance trail on to six volumes for want of
going six yards; or for want of somebody's coming into a room at the
right minute for explanation; or from some of those trivial causes by
which adepts contrive to delude us at the very moment of expectation.
Whilst Mr. Palmer was going for Mrs. Beaumont, Amelia waited in terrible
anxiety. The door was open; and as she looked into the gallery which led
to her room, she saw Mr. Palmer and her mother as they came along,
talking together. Knowing every symptom of suppressed passion in her
mother's countenance, she was quite terrified, by indications which
passed unnoticed by Mr. Palmer. As her mother approached, Amelia hid her
face in her hands for a moment, but gaining courage from the
consciousness of integrity, and from a determination to act openly, she
looked up; and, rising with dignity, said, in a gentle but firm
voice--"Mother, I hope you will not think that there is any impropriety
in my speaking to our friend, Mr. Palmer, with the same openness with
which I have always spoken to you?"
"My dear child," interrupted Mrs. Beaumont, embracing Amelia with a
sudden change of manner and countenance, "my sweet child, I have tried
you to the utmost; forgive me; all your trials now are over, and you
must allow me the pleasure of telling our excellent friend, Mr. Palmer,
what I know will delight him almost as much as it delights me--that the
choice of Amelia's heart, Mr. Palmer, is worthy of her, just what we
all wished."
"Captain Walsingham?" exclaimed Mr. Palmer, with joyful astonishment.
"Sit down, my love," said Mrs. Beaumont, seating Amelia, who, from the
surprise at this sudden change in her mother, and from the confusion of
feelings which overwhelmed her at this moment, was near fainting: "we
are too much for her, I have been too abrupt," continued Mrs. Beaumont:
"Open the window, will you, my good sir? and," whispering, "let us not
say any more to her at present; you see it won't do."
"I am well, quite well again, now," said Amelia, exerting herself.
"Don't leave, don't forsake me, Mr. Palmer; pray don't go," holding out
her hand to Mr. Palmer.
"My dear Amelia," said Mrs. Beaumont, "don't talk, don't exert yourself;
pray lie still on the sofa."
"Her colour is come back; she looks like herself again," said Mr.
Palmer, seating himself beside her, regardless of Mrs. Beaumont's
prohibitory looks. "Since my little Amelia wished me to stay, I'll not
go. So, my child--but I won't hurry you--only want one sign of the head
to confirm the truth of what your mother has just told me, for nobody
can tell what passes in a young lady's heart but herself. So then, it is
not that sprig of quality, that selfish spendthrift, that Sir John
Hunter, who has your heart--hey?"
"No, no, no," answered Amelia; "I never did, I never could like
such a man!"
"Why, I thought not--I thought it was impossible; but--"
Mrs. Beaumont, alarmed beyond conception, suddenly put her hand before
Mr. Palmer's mouth, to prevent him from finishing his sentence, and
exposing the whole of her shameful duplicity to her daughter.
"Absolutely I must, and do hereby interpose my maternal authority, and
forbid all agitating explanations whilst Amelia is in her present state.
Dr. Wheeler says she is terribly feverish. Come, Mr. Palmer, I must
carry you off by force, and from me you shall have all the explanations
and all the satisfaction you can require."
"Well," said Mr. Palmer, "good bye for the present, my little
Amelia, my darling little Amelia! I am so delighted to find that
Captain Walsingham's the man, and so glad you have no mysteries: be
well, be well soon. I am so pleased, so happy, that I am as unruly
as a child, and as easily managed. You see, how I let myself be
turned out of the room."
"Not turned out, only carried out," said Mrs. Beaumont, who never, even
in the most imminent perils, lost her polite presence of mind. Having
thus carried off Mr. Palmer, she was in hopes that, in the joyful
confusion of his mind, he would he easily satisfied with any plausible
explanation. Therefore she dexterously fixed his attention on the
future, and adverted as slightly as possible to the past."
"Now, my good sir, congratulate me," said she, "on the prospect I have
of happiness in such a son-in-law as Captain Walsingham, if it be indeed
true that Captain Walsingham is really attached to Amelia. But, on the
other hand, what shall we do if there is any truth in the story of the
Spanish lady? Oh, there's the difficulty! Between hope and fear, I am in
such a distracted state at this moment, I hardly know what I say. What
shall we do about the Spanish lady?"
"Do, my dear madam! we can do nothing at all in that case: but I will
hope the best, and you'll see that he will prove a constant man at last.
In the mean time, how was all that about Sir John Hunter, and what are
you to do with him?"
"Leave that to me; I will settle all that," cried Mrs. Beaumont.
"But I hope the poor man, though I don't like him, has not been jilted?"
"No, by no means; Amelia's incapable of that. You know she told you just
now that she never liked him."
"Ay; but I think, madam, you told me, that she _did_," said Mr. Palmer,
sticking to his point with a decided plainness, which quite disconcerted
Mrs. Beaumont.
"It was all a mistake," said she, "quite a mistake; and I am sure you
rejoice with me that it was so: and, as to the rest--past blunders, like
past misfortunes, are good for nothing but to be forgotten."
Observing that Mr. Palmer looked dissatisfied, Mrs. Beaumont continued
apologizing. "I confess you have to all appearance some cause to be
angry with me," said she: "but now only hear me. Taking the blame upon
myself, let me candidly tell you the whole truth, and all my reasons,
foolish perhaps as they were. Captain Walsingham behaved so honourably,
and had such command over his feelings, that I, who am really the most
credulous creature in the world, was so completely deceived, that I
fancied he never had a thought of Amelia, and that he never would think
of her; and I own this roused both my pride and my prudence for my
daughter; and I certainly thought it my duty, as her mother, to do every
thing in my power to discourage in her young and innocent heart a
hopeless passion. It was but within these few hours that I have been
undeceived by you as to his sentiments. That, of course, made an
immediate change, as you have seen, in my measures; for such is my high
opinion of the young man, and indeed my desire to be connected with the
Walsinghams is so great, that even whilst I am in total ignorance of
what the amount or value may be of this prize that he has taken, and
even whilst I am in doubt concerning this Spanish incognita, I have not
hesitated to declare, perhaps imprudently, to Amelia, as you have just
heard, my full approbation of the choice of her heart."
"Hum!--well--hey!--How's this?" said Mr. Palmer to himself, as he tried
to believe and to be satisfied with this apology. "Madam," said he aloud
to Mrs. Beaumont, "I comprehend that it might not be prudent to
encourage Amelia's partiality for Captain Walsingham till you were sure
of the young man's sentiments; but, excuse me, I am a very slow,
unpractised man in these matters; I don't yet understand why you told
_me_ that she was in love with Sir John Hunter?"
Mrs. Beaumont, being _somewhat in the habit of self-contradiction_, was
seldom unprovided with a concordance of excuses; but at this unlucky
moment she was found unprepared. Hesitating she stood, all subtle as she
was, deprived of ready wit, and actually abashed in the presence of a
plain good man.
"I candidly confess, my dear sir," said she, apologizing to Mr. Palmer
as he walked up and down, "that my delicacy or pride,--call it what you
will,--my false pride for my daughter, led me into an error. I could not
bring myself to acknowledge to any man, even to you--for you know that
it's contrary quite to the principles and pride of our sex--that she
felt any partiality for a man who had shown none for her. You must be
sensible it was, to say no more, an awkward, mortifying thing; and I was
so afraid even of your finding it out, that--forgive me--I did, I
candidly acknowledge, fabricate the foolish story of Sir John Hunter.
But, believe me, I never seriously thought of her marrying him."
"'Fore George! I don't understand one word of it from beginning to end,"
said Mr. Palmer, speaking aloud to himself.
Regardless of the profusion of words which Mrs. Beaumont continued
pouring forth, he seated himself in an arm-chair, and, deep in reverie
for some minutes, went on slowly striking his hands together, as he
leaned with his arms on his knees. At length he rose, rang the bell, and
said to the servant, "Sir, be so obliging as to let my man Crichton know
that he need not hurry himself to pack up my clothes, for I shall not go
to-morrow."
Struck with consternation at these words, Mrs. Beaumont, nevertheless,
commanded the proper expression of joy on the occasion. "Delightful! I
must go this instant," cried she, "and be the first to tell this
charming news to Amelia and Edward."
"Tell them, then, madam, if you please, that I have gained such a
conquest over what Mr. Walsingham calls my hypochondriacism, that I am
determined, at whatever risk, to stay another year in Old England, and
that I hope to be present at both their weddings."
Mrs. Beaumont's quick exit was at this moment necessary to conceal her
dismay. Instead of going to Amelia, she hurried to her own room, locked
the door, and sat down to compose her feelings and to collect her
thoughts; but scarcely had she been two minutes in her apartment, when
a messenger came to summon her to the festive scene in the park. The
tenants and villagers were all at dinner, and Mr. Beaumont sent to let
her know that they were waiting to drink her health. She was obliged to
go, and to appear all radiant with pleasure. The contrast between their
honest mirth and her secret sufferings was great. She escaped as soon
as she could from their _senseless_ joy, and again shut herself up in
her own room.
This sudden and totally unexpected resolution of Mr. Palmer's so
astonished her, that she could scarcely believe she had heard or
understood his words rightly. Artful persons may, perhaps, calculate
with expertness and accuracy what will, in any given case, be the
determinations of the selfish and the interested; but they are liable to
frequent mistakes in judging of the open-hearted and the generous: there
is no sympathy to guide them, and all their habits tend to mislead them
in forming opinions of the direct and sincere. It had never entered into
Mrs. Beaumont's imagination that Mr. Palmer would, notwithstanding his
belief that he hazarded his life by so doing, defer a whole year
returning to Jamaica, merely to secure the happiness of her son and
daughter. She plainly saw that he now suspected her dislike to the
Walsinghams, and her aversion to the double union with that family: she
saw that the slightest circumstance in her conduct, which confirmed his
suspicions, would not only utterly ruin her in his opinion, but might
induce him to alter that part of his will which left her sole possessor
of his fortune during her life. Bad as her affairs were at this moment,
she knew that they might still be worse. She recollected the letter of
_perfect approbation_ which Sir John Hunter had in his power. She
foresaw that he would produce this letter on the first rumour of her
favouring another lover for Amelia. She had just declared to Mr. Palmer,
that she never seriously thought of Sir John Hunter for her daughter;
and, should this letter be brought to light, she must be irremediably
convicted of the basest duplicity, and there would be no escape from the
shame of falsehood, or rather the disgrace of detection. In this grand
difficulty, Mrs. Beaumont was too good a politician to waste time upon
any inferior considerations. Instead of allowing herself leisure to
reflect that all her present difficulties arose from her habits of
insincerity, she, with the true spirit of intrigue, attributed her
disappointments to some deficiency of artifice. "Oh!" said she to
herself, "why did I _write?_ I should only have _spoken_ to Sir John.
How could I be so imprudent as to _commit_ myself by writing? But what
can be done to repair this error?"
One web destroyed, she, with indefatigable subtlety, began to weave
another. With that promptitude of invention which practice alone can
give, she devised a scheme, by which she hoped not only to prevent Sir
John Hunter from producing the written proof of her duplicity, but by
which she could also secure the reversionary title, and the great Wigram
estate. The nature of the scheme shall be unfolded in the next chapter;
and it will doubtless procure for Mrs. Beaumont, from all proper judges,
a just tribute of admiration. They will allow our heroine to be
possessed not only of that address, which is the peculiar glory of
female politicians, but also of that masculine quality, which the
greatest, wisest, of mankind has pronounced to be the first, second, and
third requisite for business--"Boldness--boldness--boldness."
CHAPTER XIII.
"The creature's at her dirty work again."--POPE.
Amongst the infinite petty points of cunning of which that great
practical philosopher Bacon has in vain essayed to make out a list, he
notes that, "Because it worketh better when any thing seemeth to be
gotten from you by question than if you offer it of yourself: you may
lay a bait for a question, by showing another visage and countenance
than you are wont, to the end to give occasion to the party to ask what
the matter is of the change."
"What is the matter, my dearest Mrs. Beaumont? I never saw you look so
sad before in all my life," said Miss Hunter, meeting Mrs. Beaumont, who
had walked out into the park on purpose to be so met, and in hopes of
having the melancholy of her countenance thus observed. It was the more
striking, and the more unseasonable, from its contrast with the gay
scene in the park. The sound of music was heard, and the dancing had
begun, and all was rural festivity: "What is the matter, my dearest Mrs.
Beaumont?" repeated Miss Hunter; "at such a time as this to see you look
so melancholy!"
"Ah! my love! such a sad change in affairs! But," whispered Mrs.
Beaumont, "I cannot explain myself before your companion."
Mr. Lightbody was walking with Miss Hunter: but he was so complaisant,
that he was easily despatched on some convenient errand; and then Mrs.
Beaumont, with all her wonted delicacy of circumlocution, began to
communicate her distress to her young friend.
"You know, my beloved Albina," said she, "it has been my most ardent
wish that your brother should be connected with my family by the nearest
and dearest ties."
"Yes; that is, married to Amelia," said Miss Hunter. "And has any thing
happened to prevent it?"
"Oh, my dear! it is all over! It cannot be--must not be thought of--must
not be spoken of any more; Mr. Palmer has been outrageous about it. Such
a scene as I have had! and all to no purpose. Amelia has won him over to
her party. Only conceive what I felt--she declared, beyond redemption,
her preference of Captain Walsingham."
"Before the captain proposed for her! How odd! dear! Suppose he should
never propose for her, what a way she will be in after affronting my
brother and all! And only think! she gives up the title, and the great
Wigram estate, and every thing. Why, my brother says, uncle Wigram can't
live three months; and Lord Puckeridge's title, too, will come to my
brother, you know; and Amelia might have been Lady Puckeridge. Only
think! did you ever know any thing so foolish?"
"Never!" said Mrs. Beaumont; "but you know, my dear, so few girls have
the sense you show in taking advice: they all will judge for themselves.
But I'm most hurt by Amelia's want of gratitude and delicacy towards
_me_," continued Mrs. Beaumont; "only conceive the difficulty and
distress in which she has left me about your poor brother. Such a shock
as the disappointment will be to him! And he may--though Heaven knows
how little I deserve it--he may suspect--for men, when they are vexed
and angry, will, you know, suspect even their best friends; he might, I
say, suspect me of not being warm in his cause."
"Dear, no! I have always told him how kind you were, and how much you
wished the thing; and of all people in the world he can't blame you,
dearest Mrs. Beaumont."
At this instant Mrs. Beaumont saw a glimpse of somebody in a bye-path of
the shrubbery near them. "Hush! Take care! Who is that lurking there?
Some listener! Who can it be?"
Miss Hunter applied her glass to her eye, but could not make out
who it was.
"It is Lightbody, I declare," said Mrs. Beaumont. "Softly,--let us not
pretend to see him, and watch what he will do. It is of the greatest
consequence to me to know whether he is a listener or not; so much as he
is about the house."
An irresistible fit of giggling, which seized Miss Hunter at the odd way
in which Lightbody walked, prevented Mrs. Beaumont's trial of his
curiosity. At the noise which the young lady made, Mr. Lightbody turned
his head, and immediately advancing, with his accustomed mixture of
effrontery and servility, said, that "he had executed Mrs. Beaumont's
commands, and that he had returned in hopes of getting a moment to say a
word to her when she was at leisure, about something he had just learned
from Mr. Palmer's man Crichton, which it was of consequence she should
know without delay."
"Oh, thank you, you best of creatures; but I know all that already."
"You know that Mr. Palmer does not go to-morrow?"
"Yes; and am so rejoiced at it! Do, my dear Lightbody, go to Amelia
and my son from me, and tell them that charming news. And after that,
pray have the compassion to inquire if the post is not come in yet,
and run over the papers, to see if you can find any thing about
Walsingham's prize."
Mr. Lightbody obeyed, but not with his usual alacrity. Mrs. Beaumont
mused for a moment, and then said, "I do believe he was listening. What
could he be doing there?"
"Doing!--Oh, nothing," said Miss Hunter: "he's never doing any thing,
you know; and as to listening, he was so far off he could not hear a
word we said: besides, he is such a simple creature, and loves you so!"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Beaumont; "he either did not play me fair, or
else he did a job I employed him in this morning so awkwardly, that I
never wish to employ him again. He is but a _low_ kind of person, after
all; I'll get rid of him: that sort of people always grow tiresome and
troublesome after a time, and one must shake them off. But I have not
leisure to think of him now--Well, my dear, to go on with what I was
saying to you."
Mrs. Beaumont went on talking of her friendship for Sir John Hunter, and
of the difficulty of appeasing him; but observing that Miss Hunter
listened only with forced attention, she paused to consider what this
could mean. Habitually suspicious, like all insincere people, Mrs.
Beaumont now began to imagine that there was some plot carrying on
against her by Sir John Hunter and Lightbody, and that Miss Hunter was
made use of against her. Having a most contemptible opinion of her
Albina's understanding, and knowing that her young friend had too little
capacity to be able to deceive her, or to invent a plausible excuse
impromptu, Mrs. Beaumont turned quick, and exclaimed, "My dear, what
could Lightbody be saying to you when I came up?--for I remember he
stopped short, and you both looked so guilty."
"Guilty! did I?--Did he?--Dearest Mrs. Beaumont, don't look at me so
with your piercing eyes!--Oh! I vow and protest I can't tell you; I
won't tell you."
The young lady tittered, and twisted herself into various affected
attitudes; then kissing Mrs. Beaumont, and then turning her back
with childish playfulness, she cried, "No, I won't tell you; never,
never, never!"
"Come, come, my dear, don't trifle; I have really business to do, and am
in a hurry."
"Well, don't look at me--never look at me again--promise me that, and
I'll tell you. Poor Lightbody--Oh, you're looking at me!--Poor Lightbody
was talking to me of _somebody_, and he laid me a wager--but I can't
tell you that--Ah, don't be angry with me, and I will tell, if you'll
turn your head quite away!--that I should be married to _somebody_
before the end of this year. Oh, now, don't look at me, dearest, dearest
Mrs. Beaumont."
"You dear little simpleton, and was that all?" said Mrs. Beaumont, vexed
to have wasted her time upon such folly: "come, be serious now, my dear;
if you knew the anxiety I am in at this moment--" But wisely judging
that it would be in vain to hope for any portion of the love-sick
damsel's attention, until she had confirmed her hopes of being married
to _somebody_ before the end of the year, Mrs. Beaumont scrupled not to
throw out assurances, in which she had herself no further faith. After
what she had heard from her son this morning, she must have been
convinced that there was no chance of marrying him to Miss Hunter; she
knew indeed positively, that he would soon declare his real attachment,
but she could, she thought, during the interval retain her power over
Miss Hunter, and secure her services, by concealing the truth.
"Before I say one word more of my own affairs, let me, my dearest child,
assure you, that in the midst of all these disappointments and
mortifications about Amelia, I am supported by the hope--by something
more than the hope--that I shall see the daughter of my heart happily
settled soon: Lightbody does not want penetration, I see. But I am not
at liberty to say more. So now, my dear, help me with all your
cleverness to consider what I shall do in the difficulties I am in at
this moment. Your brother has a letter of mine, approving, and so forth,
his addresses to my daughter; now, if he, in the first rashness of his
anger, should produce this to Palmer, I'm undone--or to my son, worse
and worse! there would be a duel between them infallibly, for Beaumont
is so warm on any point of honour--Oh, I dread to think of it, my dear!"
"So do I, I'm sure; but, Lord, I'm the worst person to think in a
hurry--But can't you write a letter? for you always know what to say so
well--And after all, do you know, I don't think he'll be half so angry
or _so disappointed_ as you fancy, for I never thought he was so much in
love with Amelia."
"Indeed!"
"I know, if it was not a secret, I could tell you--"
"What? No secrets between us, my darling child."
"Then I can tell you, that just before he proposed for Amelia, he was
consulting with me about proposing for Mrs. Dutton."
"Mrs. Dutton, the widow! Mrs. Dutton! How you astonish me!" said Mrs.
Beaumont (though she knew this before). "Why she is older than I am."
"Older! yes, a great deal; but then you know my brother is no
chicken himself."
"To be sure, compared with you, my dear, he is not young. There's a
prodigious difference between you."
"Above twenty years; _for,_ you know, he's by another marriage."
"True; but I can't believe he proposed for Mrs. Dutton."
"Not actually proposed, because I would not let him; for I should have
hated to have had such an unfashionable-looking woman for my
sister-in-law. I never could have borne to go into public with her, you
know: so I plagued my brother out of it; and luckily he found out that
her jointure is not half so great as it was said to be."
"I could have told him that. Mrs. Dutton's jointure is nothing nearly so
large as mine was, even before the addition to it which my son so
handsomely, and indeed unexpectedly, made to it this morning. And did I
tell you, my dear? Mr. Palmer, this day, has been so kind as to leave me
all his immense fortune for my own life. But don't mention it, lest it
should get round, and make ill-will: the Walsinghams know nothing of it.
But to return to your poor brother--if I could any way serve him with
Mrs. Dutton?"
"La! he'd never think of her more--and I'm sure I would not have him."
"You dear little saucy creature! indeed I cannot wonder that you don't
like the thoughts of Mrs. Dutton for a _chaperon_ in town."
"Oh, horrid! horrid!"
"And yet, would you condemn your poor brother to be an old bachelor,
after this disappointment with Amelia?"
"La, ma'am, can't he marry any body but Mrs. Dutton?"
"I wish I could think of any person would suit him. Can you?'
"Oh, I know very well who I think would suit him, and one I like to go
into public with of all things."
"Who?"
"And one who has promised to present me at court next winter."
"My dearest child! is it possible that you mean me?"
"I do;--and why not?"
"Why not! My sweet love, do you consider my age?"
"But you look so young."
"To be sure Mrs. Dutton looks older, and is older; but I could not bring
myself, especially after being a widow so long, to think of marrying a
young man--to be sure, your brother is not what one should call a very
young man."
"Dear, no; you don't look above three, or four, or five years older than
he does; and in public, and with dress, and rouge, and fashion, and all
that, I think it would do vastly well, and nobody would think it odd at
all. There's Lady ----, is not she ten years older than Lord ----? and
every body says that's nothing, and that she gives the most delightful
parties. Oh, I declare, dearest Mrs. Beaumont, you must and shall marry
my brother, and that's the only way to make him amends, and prevent
mischief between the gentlemen; the only way to settle every thing
charmingly--and I shall so like it--and I'm so proud of its being my
plan! I vow, I'll go and write to my brother this minute, and--"
"Stay, you dear mad creature; only consider what you are about."
"Consider! I have considered, and I must and will have my own way," said
the dear mad creature, struggling with Mrs. Beaumont, who detained her
with an earnest hand. "My love," said she, "I positively cannot let you
use my name in such a strange way. If your brother or the world should
think I had any share in the transaction, it would be so indelicate."
"Indelicate! Dear me, ma'am, but when nobody will know it, how can it
be indelicate? and I will not mention your name, and nobody will ever
imagine that you knew any thing of my writing; and I shall manage it
all my own way; and the plan is all my own: so let me go and write
this minute."
"Mercy upon me! what shall I do with this dear headstrong creature!"
said Mrs. Beaumont, letting Miss Hunter go, as if exhausted by the
struggle she had made to detain her impetuous young friend. Away ran
Miss Hunter, sometimes looking back in defiance and laughing, whilst
Mrs. Beaumont shook her head at her whenever she looked back, but found
it impossible to overtake her, and vain to make further opposition. As
Mrs. Beaumont walked slowly homewards, she meditated her own epistle to
Sir John Hunter, and arranged her future plan of operations.
If, thought she, Miss Hunter's letter should not succeed, it is only a
suggestion of hers, of which I am not supposed to know any thing, and I
am only just where I was before. If it does succeed, and if Sir John
transfers his addresses to me, I avoid all danger of his anger on
account of his disappointment with Amelia; for it must then be his play,
to convince me that he is not at all disappointed, and then I shall have
leisure to consider whether I shall marry Sir John or not. At all
events, I can draw on his courtship as long as I please, till I have by
degrees brought Mr. Palmer round to approve of the match.
With these views Mrs. Beaumont wrote an incomparable letter to Sir John
Hunter, in which she enveloped her meaning in so many words, and so much
sentiment, that it was scarcely possible to comprehend any thing,
except, "that she should be glad to see Sir John Hunter the next day, to
explain to him a circumstance that had given her, on his account,
heartfelt uneasiness." Miss Hunter's letter was carefully revised by
Mrs. Beaumont, though she was to know nothing of it; and such was the
art with which it was retouched, that, after all proper corrections,
nothing appeared but the most childish and imprudent simplicity.
After having despatched these letters, Mrs. Beaumont felt much anxiety
about the effect which they might produce; but she was doomed by her own
habits of insincerity to have perpetually the irksome task of assuming
an appearance contrary to her real feelings. Amelia was better, and Mr.
Palmer's determination to stay in England had spread a degree of
cheerfulness over the whole family, which had not been felt for some
time at Beaumont Park. In this general delight Mrs. Beaumont was
compelled seemingly to sympathize: she performed her part so well, that
even Dr. Wheeler and Captain Lightbody, who had been behind the scenes,
began to believe that the actress was in earnest. Amelia, alas! knew her
mother too well to be the dupe even of her most consummate powers of
acting. All that Mrs. Beaumont said about her joy, and her hopes that
Captain Walsingham would soon appear and confirm her happy
_pre-sentiments_, Amelia heard without daring to believe. She had such
an opinion of her mother's address, such a sublime superstitious dread
that her mother would, by some inscrutable means, work out her own
purposes, that she felt as if she could not escape from these secret
machinations. Amelia still apprehended that Sir John Hunter would not be
irrevocably dismissed, and that by some turn of artifice she should find
herself bound to him. The next morning Sir John Hunter, however, finally
relieved her from these apprehensions. After having been closeted for
upwards of two hours with Mrs. Beaumont, he begged to speak to Miss
Beaumont; and he resigned all pretensions to the honour which he had so
long and so ardently aspired to. It was his pride to show that his
spirits were not affected by this disappointment: he scarcely indeed
exhibited that decent appearance of mortification which is usually
expected on such an occasion; but with provoking haughtiness professed
himself sincerely obliged to Miss Beaumont for having, _however late in
the business_, prevented him, by her candour, from the danger of
crossing her inclinations. For this he could scarcely be sufficiently
thankful, when he considered how every day showed the consequences of
marrying young ladies whose affections were previously engaged. He had
only to add, that he hoped the world would see _the thing_ in the same
light in which he took it, and that Miss Beaumont might not find herself
blamed for breaking off _the matter_, after it had been so publicly
reported: that, for his part, he assured her, he would, as far as he was
concerned, do his utmost to silence unpleasant observations; and that,
as the most effectual means to do this, he conceived, would be to show
that he continued on an amicable footing with the family, he should do
himself the honour to avail himself of the permission--invitation,
indeed--he had just received from Mrs. Beaumont, to continue his visits
as usual at Beaumont Park.
To this Amelia could make no objection after the express declaration
which he had just made, that he renounced all pretensions to her favour.
However keenly she felt the implied reproach of having encouraged Sir
John as her admirer, while her affections were previously engaged, and
of having shown candour _late_ in this affair, she could not vindicate
herself without accusing her mother; therefore she attempted neither
excuse nor apology, submitted to let the unfeeling baronet enjoy her
confusion, whilst she said, in general terms, she felt obliged by his
assurance that she should not be the cause of any quarrel between two
families who had hitherto lived in friendship.
CHAPTER XIV.
"Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled, from beauty and from love!"
DRYDEN.
All that passed in the two hours' conversation between the discarded
baronet and the mother of his late mistress did not transpire; but Mrs.
Beaumont said that she had taken infinite pains to reconcile Sir John to
his fate, and his subsequent behaviour showed that she had succeeded.
His attention towards her also plainly proved that he was not
dissatisfied by the part she had acted, or rather by the part that he
thought she had acted. Thus all things went on smoothly. Mrs. Beaumont,
in confidence, told her friend, Miss Hunter, that Sir John had behaved
with the greatest propriety and candour (candour! that hackneyed word);
that he had acknowledged that his principal inducement to propose for
her daughter had been a desire to be connected with a family for which
he had such peculiar regard.
"This, my love," continued Mrs. Beaumont, "was all, you know, that your
brother could, with propriety, say on such an occasion; all indeed that
I would permit him to say. As to the rest, on Amelia's account, you
know, I could not refuse his request to continue his visits in this
family on the same footing of friendship as usual."
Whether this was the truth and the whole truth, the mystery that
involves all cabinet-councils, and more especially those of female
politicians, prevents the cautious historian from presuming to decide.
But arguing from general causes, and from the established characters and
ruling passions of the parties concerned, we may safely conjecture that
the baronet did not at this time make any decisive proposal to the lady,
but that he kept himself at liberty to advance or recede, as
circumstances should render it expedient. His ruling passion was
avarice; and though he had been allured by the hints which his sister
had thrown out concerning Mrs. Beaumont's increased jointure, and vast
expectancies from Mr. Palmer, yet he was not so rash as to act
decisively upon such vague information: he had wisely determined to
obtain accurate and positive evidence from Captain Lightbody, who
seemed, in this case, to be the common vouchee; but Lightbody happened
to be gone out to shoot _flappers_.[4]
Consequently Sir John wisely entrenched himself in general professions
of regard to Mrs. Beaumont, and reflections on the happiness of being
connected with such a respectable family. Mrs. Beaumont, who understood
the whole of the game, now saw that her play must be to take Captain
Lightbody again into her confidence.
Ever careful not to commit herself, she employed Miss Hunter to
communicate _her own scheme_ to the captain, and to prepare him on the
requisite points with proper answers to those inquiries which she
foresaw the baronet would make.
"You know, my love," said Mrs. Beaumont, "you can find a proper moment
to say all you wish to Lightbody."
"Oh, yes," said Miss Hunter, "I will if I possibly can this day; but it
is so difficult to find a good time--"
"At dinner, suppose?" said Mrs. Beaumont.
"At dinner! surely, ma'am, that's an awkward time, is not it, for
talking of secrets?"
"The best time in the world, my dear; you know we are to have the
Duttons, and the Lord knows whom besides, to-day. And when there's a
large company, and every body talking at once, and eating, and
drinking, and carving, it is the best time in the world! You may say
what you please; your neighbours are all happily engaged, too busy to
mind you. Get near fat Mr. Dutton, and behind the screen of his
prodigious elbow you will be comfortably recessed from curious
impertinents. My dear, the most perfect solitude is not so convenient
as one of these great dinners."
Whilst Mrs. Beaumont was demonstrating to Miss Hunter that the most
convenient and secure time for a _tete-a-tete_ is at a large dinner, she
happened to look out of the window, near which they were standing, and
she saw her son and daughter with Mr. Palmer walking in the park; they
sat down under a tree within view of the house.
"Come away from the window, my dear," said Mrs. Beaumont; "they will
observe us, and perhaps think we are plotting something. I wonder what
they are talking of! Look how earnestly Amelia is stretching out her
neck, and Mr. Palmer striking his cane upon the ground. Come back a
little, my dear, come back; you can see as well here."
"But I see a gentleman on horseback, galloping. Oh, ma'am, look! he has
stopped! he has jumped off his horse! Captain Walsingham it must be!"
"Captain Walsingham it really is!" said Mrs. Beaumont, pressing forward
to look out of the window, yet standing so, that she could not be seen
from without.
"Dear," said Miss Hunter, "but how delighted Mr. Beaumont seems; and how
Mr. Palmer shakes Captain Walsingham's hand, as if he had known him
these hundred years! What can make them so glad to see him? Do look at
them, ma'am."
"I see it all!" said Mrs. Beaumont, with an involuntary sigh.
"But, dear Mrs. Beaumont," pursued Miss Hunter, "if he has actually come
at last to propose for Amelia, don't you think he is doing it in a
shabby sort of way? When he has been in London too--and if he has taken
such a treasure too, could not he have come down here a little more in
style, with some sort of an equipage of his own at least? But now only
look at him; would you, if you met him on the road, know him from any
common man?"
Another sigh, deep and sincere, was all the answer Mrs. Beaumont made.
"I am sure," continued Miss Hunter, as Mrs. Beaumont drew her away from
the window, "I am sure, I think Amelia has not gained much by the change
of admirers; for what's a captain of a ship?"
"He ranks with a colonel in the army, to be sure," said Mrs. Beaumont;
"but Amelia might have looked much higher. If she does not know her own
interest and dignity, that is not my fault."
"If she had such a fortune as I shall have," said Miss Hunter, "she
might afford to marry for love, because you know she could make her
husband afterwards keep her proper equipages, and take her to town, and
go into parliament, and get a title for her too!"
"Very true, my darling," said Mrs. Beaumont, who was at this instant so
absent, that she assented without having heard one syllable that her
darling said.
"But for Amelia, who has no such great fortune of her own, it is quite
another thing, you know, dearest Mrs. Beaumont. Oh, you'll see how
she'll repent when she sees you Lady Puckeridge, and herself plain Mrs.
Walsingham. And when she sees the figure you'll make in town next
winter, and the style my brother will live in--Oh, then she'll see what
a difference there is between Sir John Hunter and Captain Walsingham!"
"Very true, indeed, my dear," said Mrs. Beaumont; and this time she did
not answer without having heard the assertion. The door opened.
"Captain Walsingham! dare I believe my eyes? And do I see our friend,
Captain Walsingham, again at last?"
"At last! Oh, Mrs. Beaumont, you don't know how hard I have worked to
get here."
"How kind! But won't you sit down and tell me?"
"No; I can neither sit, nor rest, nor speak, nor think upon any subject
but one," said Captain Walsingham.
"That's right," cried Mr. Palmer.
"Mrs. Beaumont--pardon my abruptness," continued Captain Walsingham,
"but you see before you a man whose whole happiness is at stake. May I
beg a few minutes' conversation with you?"
"This instant," said Mrs. Beaumont, hesitating; but she saw that Mr.
Palmer's eye was upon her, so with a smile she complied immediately; and
giving her hand graciously to Captain Walsingham, she accompanied him
into a little reading-room within the drawing-room.
"May I hope that we are friends?" said Captain Walsingham; "may I hope
so, Mrs. Beaumont--may I?"
"Good Heavens! Friends! assuredly; I hope so. I have always had and
expressed the highest opinion of you, Captain Walsingham."
"I have had one, and, hitherto, but one opportunity of showing myself,
in any degree, deserving of your esteem, madam," said Captain
Walsingham. "When I was in this country some years ago, you must have
seen how passionately I was in love with your daughter; but I knew that
my circumstances were then such that I could not hope to obtain Miss
Beaumont's hand; and you will do me the justice to allow that I behaved
with prudence. Of the difficulty of the task I alone can judge."
Mrs. Beaumont declared, that she admired Captain Walsingham's conduct
inexpressibly, now that she understood what his feelings and motives
had been; but really he had kept his own secret so honourably, that she
had not, till within these few days, when it was _let out_ by Mr.
Walsingham to Mr. Palmer, had the most distant idea of his being
attached to her daughter.
Captain Walsingham was too polite even to _look_ a doubt of the truth of
a lady's assertion: he therefore believed, because it was impossible.
Mrs. Beaumont, determining to make her story consistent, repeated nearly
what she had said to Mr. Palmer, and went on to confess that she had
often, with a mother's pride, perhaps, in her own secret thoughts
wondered at the indifference Captain Walsingham showed towards Amelia.
Captain Walsingham was surprised that Mrs. Beaumont's penetration should
have been so strangely mistaken; especially as the symptoms of
admiration and love must be so well known to a lady who had so many and
such passionate admirers.
Mrs. Beaumont smiled, and observed, that Captain Walsingham, though a
seaman, had all the address of a courtier, and she acknowledged that she
loved address.
"If by address Mrs. Beaumont means politeness, I admire it as much as
she does; but I disclaim and despise all that paltry system of artifice,
which is sometimes called address. No person of a great mind ever
condescends to use _address_ in that sense of the word; not because they
cannot, but because they will not."
"Certainly--certainly," said Mrs. Beaumont; "there is nothing I love so
much as frankness."
"Then, frankly, Mrs. Beaumont, may I hope for your approbation in
addressing Miss Beaumont?"
"Frankly, then, you have my full approbation. This is the very thing I
have long secretly wished, as Mr. Palmer can tell you. You have ever
been the son-in-law of my choice, though not of my hopes."
Delighted with this frank answer, this full approbation, this assurance
that he had always been the son-in-law of her choice, Captain Walsingham
poured out his warm heart in joy and gratitude. All suspicions of Mrs.
Beaumont were forgotten; for suspicion was unnatural to his mind: though
he knew, though he had experience almost from childhood, of her
character, yet, at this instant, he thought he had, till now, been
always prejudiced, always mistaken. Happy those who can be thus duped by
the warmth of their own hearts! It is a happiness which they who smile
in scorn at their credulity can never enjoy.
Wakening a little to the use of his understanding, Captain Walsingham
disconcerted Mrs. Beaumont, by suddenly saying, "Then there was not any
truth in the report, which I have heard with horror, that you were going
to marry Miss Beaumont to Sir John Hunter?"
"Then there was not any truth in the report I heard with horror, that
you were going to marry yourself to a Spanish nun?" said Mrs. Beaumont,
who had learned from a veteran in public warfare, that the best way to
parry an attack is not to defend, but to make an assault.
"My dear Captain Walsingham," added she, with an arch smile, "I really
thought you were a man of too much sense, and above all, too much
courage, to be terror-struck by every idle report. You should leave such
_horrors_ to us weak women--to the visionary mind. Now, I could not
blame poor Amelia, if she were to ask, 'Then was there no truth in the
report of the Spanish incognita?'--No, no," pursued Mrs. Beaumont,
playfully, refusing to hear Captain Walsingham; "not to me, not to _me_,
must your defence be made. Appear before your judge, appear before
Amelia; I can only recommend you to mercy."
What a charming woman this Mrs. Beaumont would be, if one could feel
quite sure of her sincerity, thought Captain Walsingham, as he followed
the lady, who, with apparently playful, but really polite grace, thus
eluded all further inquiry into her secret manoeuvres.
"Here, my dearest Amelia," cried she, "is a culprit, whom I am bringing
to your august tribunal for mercy."
"For justice," said Captain Walsingham.
"Justice! Oh, the pride of the man's heart, and the folly! Who ever
talks of justice to a woman? My dear captain, talk of mercy, or cruelty,
if you will; we ladies delight in being called cruel, you know, and
sometimes are even pleased to be merciful--but to be just, is the last
thing we think of: so now for your trial; public or private, Captain
Walsingham?"
"Public! as I am innocent."
"Oyes, oyes! all manner of men," cried Mr. Beaumont.
"The Spanish cause coming on!" cried Mr. Palmer: "let me hear it; and
let me have a good seat that I may hear--a seat near the judge."
"Oh, you shall be judge, Mr. Palmer," said Amelia; "and here is the best
seat for our good judge."
"And you will remember," said Mr. Beaumont, "that it is the duty of a
good judge to lean towards the prisoner."
"To lean! No, to sit bolt upright, as I will if I can," said old Mr.
Palmer, entering into the pleasantry of the young people as readily as
if he had been the youngest man in the company. As he looked round, his
good countenance beamed with benevolent pleasure.
"Now, sir captain, be pleased to inform the court what you have done, or
mean to do, with a certain Spanish nun, whom, as it is confidently
asserted in a letter from one of your own men, you carried off from her
nunnery, and did bring, or cause to be brought, with you to England."
"My lord judge, will you do me the favour, or the justice, to order that
the letter alluded to may be read in court?"
This was ordered, and done accordingly.
"My lord judge," said Captain Walsingham, "I have nothing to object to
the truth of the main points of this story; and considering that it was
told by a very young man, and a traveller, it contains but a reasonable
share of _'travellers' wonders.'_ Considering the opportunity and
temptation for embellishments afforded by such a romantic tale, less has
been added to it by the narrator than the usual progress of strange
reports might have prepared me to expect. It is most true, as it has
been stated, that I did, by her own desire, carry away from a nunnery,
at ----, this lady, who was neither a nun nor a Spanish lady, nor, as
I am compelled by my regard to truth to add, young, nor yet handsome.
My lord judge, far be it from me to impeach the veracity of the
letter-writer. It is admitted by the highest and the lowest authorities,
that beauty is a matter of taste, and that for taste there is no
standard; it is also notorious, that to a sailor every woman is fair and
young, who is not as old as Hecuba, or as ugly as Caifacaratadaddera. I
can therefore speak only to my own opinion and judgment. And really, my
lord, it grieves me much to spoil the romance, to destroy the effect of
a tale, which might in future serve for the foundation of some novel,
over which belles and beaux, yet unborn, might weep and wonder: it
grieves me much, I say, to be compelled by the severity of this
cross-examination to declare the simple truth, that there was no love in
the case; that, to the very best of my belief and judgment, the lady was
not in love with any body, much less with me."
"As you have admitted, sir," said the judge, "as you have voluntarily
stated, that to a sailor every woman is fair and young, who is not as
old as Hecuba, or as ugly as that other woman with the unspeakable name,
you will be pleased to inform the court how it happened, or how it was
possible, that in the course of a long voyage, you could avoid falling
in love with the damsel whom you had thus rescued and carried off.
Experience shows us, sir, that at land, and, I presume, at sea,
proximity is one of the most common causes of love. Now, I understand,
she was the only woman you saw for some months; and she had, I think you
allow, possession of your cabin, to and from which you had of course
constant egress and regress. Sir, human nature is human nature; here is
temptation, and opportunity, and circumstantial evidence enough, in our
days, to hang a man. What have you to offer in your defence, young man?"
"The plain fact, my lord, is, that instead of three months, I was but
three days in the dangerous state of proximity with the Spanish lady.
But had it been three months, or three years, there is my defence, my
lord," said Captain Walsingham, bowing to Amelia. "At the first _blush_,
you allow it, I see, to be powerful; but how powerful, you cannot feel
as I do, without having looked, as I have done, into the mind."
"I have looked into the mind as well as you, sir. You have a great deal
of assurance, to tell me I cannot feel and judge as well as you can.
But, nevertheless, I shall do you justice. I think your defence is
sufficient. I believe we must acquit him. But, pray--the plain matter of
fact, which I wanted to hear, I have not yet got at. What have you done
with this lady? and where is she?"
"She was carried safely to her friends--to her friend, for she has but
one friend, that I could find out, an old aunt, who lives in an obscure
lodging, in a narrow street, in London."
"And, upon honour, this is all you know about her?" said Mrs. Beaumont.
"All--except that she is in hopes of recovering some property, of which
she says she has been unjustly defrauded by some of her relations. After
I had paid my respects at the Admiralty, I made it my business to see
the lady, and to offer my services; but into her lawsuits, I thank God,
it was not my business to inquire, I recommended to her a good honest
lawyer, and came here as fast as horses could carry me."
"But was not there some giving of diamonds, and exchanging of rings, one
day, upon deck?" said Mrs. Beaumont.
"None," said Captain Walsingham; "that was a mere fable of poor Birch's
imagination. I recollect the lady showed me a Spanish motto upon her
ring; that is all I can remember about rings.--She had no diamonds, and
very few clothes. Now," cried Captain Walsingham, growing a little
impatient of the length of his trial, for he had not yet been able to
speak for more than an instant to Amelia, "now, I hope, my trial is
ended; else its length will be, as in some other cases, the worst of
punishments."
"Acquitted! acquitted! honourably acquitted!" said Mr. Palmer.
"Acquitted, acquitted, honourably acquitted by general acclamation,"
cried Mr. Beaumont.
"Acquitted by a smile from Amelia, worth all our acclamations," said
Mrs. Beaumont.
"Captain Walsingham," said Miss Hunter, "did the lady come to England
and go to London in a Spanish dress and long waist?"
She spoke, but Captain Walsingham did not hear her important question.
She turned to repeat it, but the captain was gone, and Amelia with him.
"Bless me! how quick! how odd!" said Miss Hunter, with a pouting look,
which seemed to add--nobody carries me off!
Mr. Beaumont looked duller than was becoming.
Mrs. Beaumont applied herself to adjust the pretty curls of Miss
Hunter's hair; and Mr. Palmer, in one of his absent fits, hummed aloud,
as he walked up and down the room,
"'And it's, Oh! what will become of me?
Oh! what shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo.'"
CHAPTER XV.
"True love's the gift which God has giv'n
To man alone, beneath the heav'n;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind."
Happy love, though the most delightful in reality, is the most
uninteresting in description; and lovers are proverbially bad company,
except for one another: therefore we shall not intrude on Captain
Walsingham and Amelia, nor shall we give a journal of the days of
courtship; those days which, by Rousseau, and many people, have been
pronounced to be the happiest; by others, the only happy days of
existence; and which, by some privileged or prudent few, have been found
to be but the prelude to the increasing pleasures of domestic union.
Now that Mr. Beaumont saw his sister and his friend thus gratified in
their mutual esteem and affection,--now that he saw all obstacles to
their union removed, he became uncontroulably impatient to declare his
own attachment to Miss Walsingham.
"My dear mother, I can bear it no longer. Believe me, you are mistaken
in the whole romance you have imagined to yourself about Miss Hunter.
She is no more in love with me than I am with her. Since you fixed my
attention upon her, I have studied the young lady. She is not capable of
love: I don't mean that she is not capable of wishing to be married, but
that is quite a different affair, which need not give me any peculiar
disturbance. My dear mother, find another husband for her, and my life
for it, her heart will not break; especially if you give her bales of
wedding finery enough to think and talk about for a calendar year.
"You abominably malicious monster of cruelty, I will not smile, nor will
I allow you to indulge your humour in this manner at the expense of your
poor victim."
"Victim! never saw a girl look less like a victim, except, indeed, as to
her ornaments. I believe it is the etiquette for victims to appear
dressed out with garlands, and ribands, and flowers."
"Positively, Edward, I won't allow you to go on in this style;--do you
know you seriously hurt and offend me? do you consider that Miss
Hunter's mother was my most intimate friend, and this match I have
anxiously wished, in consequence of an agreement made between us at your
birth and Albina's?"
"Oh, ma'am, those agreements never turned out well, from the time of the
Arabian tales to the present moment. And you must pardon me if, after
having tried all that reason and patience would do, in vain, I now come
to impatience, and a little innocent ridicule. Except by laughing, I
have no other way left of convincing you that I never can or will marry
this young lady."
"But so pretty a creature! Surely you _have thought_ her pretty."
"Extremely pretty. And I acknowledge that there have been moments when
the influence of her--beauty, I can't call it--prettiness, joined to the
power of my mother's irresistible address, have almost lapped me in
elysium--a fool's paradise. But, thank Heaven and Miss Walsingham! I
unlapped myself; and though the sweet airs took my fancy, they never
imprisoned my soul."
"Vastly poetical! quite in the blue-stocking style."
"Blue-stocking! Dear mother, that expression is not elegant enough for
you. That commonplace taunt is unworthy of my mother," said Mr.
Beaumont, warmly, for he was thrown off his guard by the reflection
implied on Miss Walsingham. "Ignorant silly women may be allowed to
sneer at information and talents in their own sex, and, if they have
read them, may talk of _'Les Precieuses Ridicules_,' and _'Les Femmes
Savantes_,' and may borrow from Moliere all the wit they want, to
support the cause of folly. But from women who are themselves
distinguished for talents, such apostasy--but I am speaking to my
mother--I forbear."
"Great forbearance to your mother you have shown, in truth," cried Mrs.
Beaumont, reddening with genuine anger: "Marry as you please! I have
done. Fool that I have been, to devote my life to plans for the
happiness and aggrandizement of my children! It is now time I should
think of myself. You shall not see me the defeated, deserted, duped,
despised mother--the old dowager _permitted_ in the house of which she
was once the mistress! No, no, Mr. Beaumont," cried she, rising
indignantly, "this shall never, never be."
Touched and astonished by a burst of passion, such as he scarcely had
ever before seen from his mother, Mr. Beaumont stopped her as she rose;
and taking her hand in the most affectionate manner, "Forgive me, my
dear mother, the hasty words I said just now. I was very much in the
wrong. I beg your pardon. Forgive your son."
Mrs. Beaumont struggled to withdraw the hand which her son
forcibly detained.
"Be always," continued he, "be always mistress of this house, of me, and
mine. The chosen wife of my heart will never torment you, or degrade
herself, with paltry struggles for power. Your days shall be happy and
honoured: believe me, I speak from my heart."
Mrs. Beaumont looked as if her anger had subsided; yet, as if struggling
with unusual feelings, she sat silent. Mr. Beaumont continued, "Your
son--who is no sentimentalist, no speech-maker--your son, who has
hitherto perhaps been too rough, too harsh--now implores you, by these
sincere caresses, by all that is tender and true in nature, to believe
in the filial affection of your children. Give us, simply give us your
confidence; and our confidence, free and unconstrained, shall be given
in return. Then we shall be happy indeed."
Touched, vanquished, Mrs. Beaumont leaned her head on her son, and said,
"Then we shall be happy indeed!" The exclamation was sincere: at this
moment she thought as she spoke. All her schemes were forgotten: the
reversionary title, the Wigram estate--all, all forgotten: miraculous
eloquence and power of truth!
"What happiness!" said Mrs. Beaumont: "I ask no other. You are right, my
dear son; marry Miss Walsingham, and we have enough, and more than
enough, for happiness. You are right; and henceforward we shall have but
one mind amongst us."
With true gratitude and joy her son embraced her; and this was the most
delightful, perhaps the only really delightful, moment she had felt for
years. She was sincere, and at ease. But this touch of nature, strong as
it was, operated only for a moment: habit resumed her influence; art
regained her pupil and her slave! Captain Lightbody and Miss Hunter came
into the room; and with them came low thoughts of plots, and notes, and
baronets, and equipages, and a reversionary title, and the Wigram
estate. What different ideas of happiness! Her son, in the mean time,
had started up, mounted his horse, and had galloped off to realize some
of his ideas of felicity, by the immediate offer of his hand to the lady
who possessed his whole heart. Cool as policy, just recovered from the
danger of imprudent sensibility, could make her, Mrs. Beaumont was now
all herself again.
"Have you found much amusement shooting this morning, Lightbody?" said
she, carelessly.
"No, ma'am; done nothing--just nothing at all--for I met Sir John in the
grounds, and could not leave him. Poor Sir John, ma'am; I tell him we
must get him a crook; he is quite turned despairing shepherd. Never saw
a man so changed. Upon my soul, he is--seriously now, Mrs. Beaumont, you
need not laugh--I always told Sir John that his time of falling in love
would come; and come it has, at last, with a vengeance."
"Oh, nonsense! nonsense, Lightbody! This to me! and of Sir John Hunter!"
Though Mrs. Beaumont called it, and thought it nonsense, yet it
flattered her; and though she appeared half offended by flattery so
gross, as to seem almost an insult upon her understanding, yet her
vanity was secretly gratified, even by feeling that she had dependents
who were thus obliged to flatter; and though she despised Captain
Lightbody for the meanness, yet he made his court to her successfully,
by persisting in all the audacity of adulation. She knew Sir John
Hunter too well to believe that he was liable to fall in love with any
thing but a fair estate or a fine fortune; yet she was gratified by
feeling that she possessed so great a share of those charms which age
cannot wither; of that substantial power, to which men do not merely
feign in poetical sport to submit, or to which they are slaves only for
a honey-moon, but to which they do homage to the latest hour of life,
with unabating, with increasing devotion. Besides this sense of
pleasure arising from calculation, it may be presumed that, like all
other female politicians, our heroine had something of the woman
lurking at her heart; something of that feminine vanity, which inclines
to believe in the potency of personal charms, even when they are in the
wane. Captain Lightbody's asseverations, and the notes Sir John Hunter
wrote to his sister, were at last listened to by Mrs. Beaumont with
patience, and even with smiles; and, after it had been sufficiently
reiterated, that really it was using Sir John Hunter ill not to give
him some more decisive answer, when he was so unhappy, so impatient,
she at length exclaimed, "Well, Lightbody, tell your friend Sir John,
then, since it must be so, I will consult my friends, and see what can
be done for him."
"When may I say? for I dare not see Sir John again--positively I dare
not meet him--without having some hope to give, something decisive. He
says the next time he comes here he must be allowed to make it known to
the family that he is Mrs. Beaumont's admirer. So, when may I say?"
"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beaumont," cried Miss Hunter, "say to-morrow."
"To-morrow! impossible!"
"But when?" said Miss Hunter: "only look at my brother's note to me
again; you see he is afraid of being cast off at last as he was before
about Amelia, if Mr. Palmer should object; and he says this
disappointment would be such a very different affair."
"Indeed," said Captain Lightbody, "I, who am in Sir John's confidence,
can vouch for that; for I have reason to believe, that--that _the
connexion_ was the charm, and that the daughter would not have been
thought of. Stop, I was charged not to say this. But _when_ Mrs.
Beaumont, to return to my point--"
"Oh! name an early day," cried Miss Hunter, in a fondling tone; "name an
early day for my brother's coming; and then, you know, it will be so
_nice_ to have the wedding days fixed for both marriages. And, dearest
Mrs. Beaumont, remember I am to be your bride's-maid; and we'll have a
magnificent wedding, and I shall be bride's-maid!"
"The dear innocent little creature, how mad she is with spirits! Well,
you shall be my bride's-maid, if the thing takes place."
"_If.--If_ to the winds!--Captain Lightbody, tell my brother--No, I'll
write myself, and tell him he may come."
"How she distresses me! But she is so affectionate, one does not know
how to be angry with her. But, my dear, as to naming the day when he
may publicly declare himself, I cannot; for, you know, I have to break
the affair to Mr. Palmer, and to my son and daughter, and I must take
my own time, and find a happy moment for this; so name a day I cannot;
but in general--and it's always safest to use general terms--you may
say, _soon_."
This was Mrs. Beaumont's ultimatum. The note was written accordingly,
and committed to the care of the confidential captain.
This business of mysterious note-writing, and secret negotiations[5],
was peculiarly suited to our heroine's genius and taste. Considering the
negotiation to be now in effect brought within view of a happy
termination, her ambassador, furnished with her ultimatum, having now
actually set out on his ostensible mission of duck-shooting, our fair
negotiatrix prepared to show the usual degree of gratitude towards those
who had been the principal instruments of her success. The proper time,
she thought, was now arrived, when, having no further occasion for Miss
Hunter's services, she might finally undeceive her young friend as to
any hopes she might retain of a union with Mr. Beaumont; and she felt
that it was now indispensably necessary to disclose the truth, that her
son had declared his attachment to Miss Walsingham.
Mrs. Beaumont opened the delicate case with a sigh, which claimed the
notice of her young confidante.
"What a deep sigh!" said Miss Hunter, who was perfect, to use a musical
term, in her lessons, _pour observer les soupirs_: "What a sigh! I hope
it was for my poor brother?"
"Ah, no, my love! for one nearer my heart--for you."
"For me!--dear me!"
"You see before you a mother, all of whose fondest wishes and plans are
doomed to be frustrated by her children. Amelia would have her way: I
was forced to yield. My son follows her example, insists upon marrying
without fortune, or extraordinary beauty, or any of the advantages which
I had fondly pointed out in the daughter-in-law of my heart. You turn
away from me, my darling! How shall I go on? how shall I tell you all
the terrible truth?"
"Oh, ma'am, pray go on; pray tell me all."
"Miss Walsingham; that's all, in one word. These Walsinghams have forced
themselves into my family,--fairly outwitted me. I cannot tell you how
much, how deeply I am mortified!"
"Thank Heaven! I am not mortified," cried Miss Hunter, throwing back her
head with pettish disdain.
Mrs. Beaumont, who had prepared herself for a fainting fit, or at
least for a flood of tears, rejoiced to see this turn in the young
lady's temper.
"That's right, my own love. Hew I admire your spirit! This pride becomes
you, and is what I expected from your understanding. Set a just value
upon yourself, and show it."
"I should set but little value on myself, indeed, if I did not think
myself equal to Miss Walsingham; but Mr. Beaumont knows best."
"Not best, I fear," said Mrs. Beaumont; "but, from a child he was ever
the most self-willed, uncontrollable being; there was no moving, no
persuading him. There was no power, no appeal, my love, I did not try."
"Dear ma'am, I am excessively sorry you did."
"Why, my dear, I could not refrain from doing all I could, not only for
my son's sake, but for yours, when I saw your affections, as I feared,
so deeply engaged. But your present magnanimity gives me hopes that the
shock will not be irrecoverable."
"Irrecoverable! No, really, ma'am. If Mr. Beaumont expects to see me
wear the willow for him all my life, his vanity will be mistaken."
"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Beaumont, "you would not be so weak
as to wear the willow for any man. A young lady of your fortune should
never wear the weeping but the golden willow. Turn your pretty little
face again towards me, and smile once more upon me."
Miss Hunter had sat with her face turned from Mrs. Beaumont during the
whole of this dialogue--"as if by hiding her face, she could conceal the
emotions of her mind from me," thought her penetrating observer.
"Spare me, spare me, dearest Mrs. Beaumont," cried Miss Hunter, hiding
her face on the arm of the sofa, and seeming now disposed to pass from
the heights of anger to the depths of despair.
Mrs. Beaumont, less hard-hearted than some politicians, who care not who
dies or lives, provided they attain their own objects, now listened at
least with seeming commiseration to her young friend, who, with
intermitting sighs, and in a voice which her position or her sobs
rendered scarcely audible, talked of dying, and of never marrying any
other man upon the earth.
Not much alarmed, however, by the dying words of young ladies, Mrs.
Beaumont confined her attention to the absurdity of the resolution
against marriage in general, and at this instant formed a plan of
marrying Miss Hunter to one of her nephews instead of her son. She had
one unmarried nephew, a young man of good figure and agreeable manners,
but with only a younger brother's portion. To him she thought Miss
Hunter's large fortune would be highly convenient; and she had reason to
believe that his taste in the choice of a wife would be easily governed
by her advice, or by his interest. Thus she could, at least, prevent her
young friend's affections and fortune from going out of the family. In
consequence of this glimpse of a new scheme, our indefatigable
politician applied herself to prepare the way for it with her wonted
skill. She soothed the lovelorn and pettish damsel with every
expression that could gratify pride and rouse high thoughts of revenge.
She suggested that instead of making rash vows of celibacy, which would
only show forlorn constancy, Miss Hunter should abide by her first
spirited declaration, never to wear the willow for any man; and that the
best way to assert her own dignity would be to marry as soon as
possible. After having given this consolatory advice, Mrs. Beaumont left
the young lady's grief to wear itself out. "I know, my love," added she,
"a friend of mine who would die for the happiness which my obstinate son
does not, it seems, know how to value."
"Who, ma'am?" said Miss Hunter, raising her head: "I'm sure I can't
guess whom you can possibly mean--who, ma'am?"
"Ah! my dear, excuse me," said Mrs. Beaumont, "that is a secret I cannot
tell you yet. When you are 'fit to hear yourself convinced,' may be, I
may obtain leave to tell you your admirer's name. I can assure you, he's
a very fashionable and a very agreeable man; a great favourite with our
sex, a particular friend of mine, and an officer."
"Lord bless me!" exclaimed Miss Hunter, starting quite up, "an officer!
I can't imagine whom you mean! Dear Mrs. Beaumont, whom can you mean?"
Mrs. Beaumont walked towards the door.
"Only tell me one thing, dearest Mrs. Beaumont--did I ever see him?"
Mrs. Beaumont, wisely declining to answer any more questions at present,
quitted the room, and left Miss Hunter dying--with curiosity.
The new delight of this fresh project, with the prospect of bringing to
a happy termination her negotiation with Sir John Hunter, sustained Mrs.
Beaumont's spirits in the midst of the disappointments she experienced
respecting the marriages of her son and daughter; and enabled her, with
less effort of dissimulation, to take apparently a share in the general
joy which now pervaded her family. Her son expressed his felicity with
unbounded rapture, when he found his proposal to Miss Walsingham
graciously received by the object of his affections, and by all her
family: his gratitude to his mother for no longer opposing his wishes
gave a tenderness to his manner which would have touched any heart but
that of a politician. Amelia, also, even in the midst of her love for
Captain Walsingham, was anxiously intent upon showing dutiful attention
to her mother, and upon making her some amends for the pain she had
caused her of late. Whenever the brother and sister were together, in
all their views of future happiness their mother was one of their
principal objects; and these dispositions both Miss Walsingham and
Captain Walsingham were earnest to confirm. No young people could have
higher ideas than they had of the duty of children towards parents, and
of the delight of family confidence and union. In former times, when Mr.
Beaumont had been somewhat to blame in the roughness of his sincerity
towards his mother, and when he had been disposed to break from her
artful restraints, Captain Walsingham, by his conversation, and by his
letters, had always used his power and influence to keep him within
bounds; and whenever he could do so with truth, to raise Mrs. Beaumont
in his opinion. She now appeared in a more advantageous light to her
family, and they were more disposed to believe in her sincerity than
they had ever been since the credulous days of childhood. The days of
love and childhood are perhaps, in good minds, almost equally credulous,
or, at least, confiding. Even Mr. Walsingham was won over by the
pleasure he felt in the prospect of his daughter's happiness; and good
Mr. Palmer was ten times more attentive than ever to Madam Beaumont. In
his attention, however, there was something more ceremonious than
formerly; it was evident, for he was too honest to conceal his feelings,
that his opinion of her was changed, and that his attention was paid to
her rather as the widow of his old friend than on her own account.
Amelia, who particularly remarked this change, and who feared that it
must be severely painful to her mother, tried by every honest art of
kindness to reinstate her in his regard. Amelia, however, succeeded only
in raising herself in his esteem.
"Do not disturb yourself, my dear young lady," said he to her, one day,
"about your mother and me. Things are on their right footing between us,
and can never be on any other. She, you see, is quite satisfied."
Mrs. Beaumont, indeed, had not Amelia's quick sensibility with regard to
the real affections of her friends, though she was awake to every
external mark of attention. She was content, as Mr. Palmer before others
always treated her with marked deference, and gave her no reason to
apprehend any alteration in his testamentary dispositions. When
settlements were talked of for the intended marriages, Mr. Palmer seemed
to consider Mrs. Beaumont first in all their consultations, appealed for
her opinion, and had ever a most cautious eye upon her interests. This
she observed with satisfaction, and she was gratified by the
demonstrations of increased regard from her son and daughter, because
she thought it would facilitate her projects. She wished that her
marriage with Sir John Hunter should appear well to the world; and for
this reason she desired that it should _seem_ to be liked by all her
family--seem, for as to their real opinions she was indifferent.
Things were in this situation, when Mrs. Beaumont _caused herself to be
surprised_[6] one morning by Mr. Palmer, with a letter in her hand, deep
in reverie.
"Oh! my dear Mr. Palmer, is it you?" cried she, starting very naturally;
"I was really so lost in thought--"
Mr. Palmer hoped that he did not disturb her.--"Disturb me! no, my good
friend, you are the very person I wished to consult." Her eye glanced
again and again upon the letter she held in her hand, but Mr. Palmer
seemed provokingly destitute of curiosity; he however took a chair, and
his snuff-box, and with a polite but cold manner said he was much
honoured by her consulting him, but that of course his judgment could be
of little service to a lady of Mrs. Beaumont's understanding.
"Understanding! Ah!" said she, "there are cases where understanding is
of no use to women, but quite the contrary."
Mr. Palmer did not contradict the assertion, nor did he assent to it,
but waited, with a pinch of snuff arrested in its way, to have the cases
specified.
"In love affairs, for instance, we poor women," said Mrs. Beaumont,
looking down prettily; but Mr. Palmer afforded no assistance to her
bashful hesitation; she was under the necessity of finishing her
sentence, or of beginning another, upon a different construction. The
latter was most convenient, and she took a new and franker
tone:--"Here's a letter from poor Sir John Hunter."
Mr. Palmer still sat bending forward to listen with the most composed
deference, but pressed not in the slightest degree upon her confidence
by any question or look down towards the letter, or up towards the
lady's face, but straightforward looked he, till, quite provoked by his
dulness, Mrs. Beaumont took the matter up again, and, in a new tone,
said, "To be candid with you, my dear friend, this is a subject on which
I feel some awkwardness and reluctance in speaking to you--for of all
men breathing, I should in any important action of my life wish for your
approbation; and yet, on the present occasion, I fear, and so does Sir
John, that you will utterly disapprove of the match,"
She paused again, to be asked--What match? But compelled by her
auditor's invincible silence to make out her own case, she proceeded:
"You must know, my good sir, that Sir John Hunter is, it seems,
unconquerably bent upon a connexion with this family; for being refused
by the daughter, he has proposed for the mother!"
"Yes," said Mr. Palmer, bowing.
"I thought you would have been more surprised," said Mrs. Beaumont: "I
am glad the first sound of the thing does not, as I was afraid it would,
startle or revolt you."
"Startle me, it could not, madam," said Mr. Palmer, "for I have been
prepared for it some time past."
"Is it possible? And who could have mentioned it to you--Captain
Lightbody?"
"Captain Lightbody!" cried Mr. Palmer, with a sudden flash of
indignation: "believe me, madam, I never thought of speaking to
Captain Lightbody of your affairs, I am not in the habit of listening
to such people."
"But still, he might have spoken."
"No, madam, no; he would not have dared to bring me secret information."
"Honourable! quite honourable! But then, my dear sir, how came you to
know the thing?"
"I saw it. You know, madam, those who stand by always see more than
the players."
"And do you think my son and daughter, and Captain Walsingham,
know it too?"
"I fancy not; for they have not been standers by: they have been deeply
engaged themselves."
"That's well--for I wished to have your opinion and advice in the first
place, before I hinted it even to them, or any one else living. As I
feared the match would not meet your approbation, I told Sir John so,
and I gave him only a provisional consent."
"Like the provisional consent of that young Irish lady," said Mr.
Palmer, laughing, "who went through the marriage service with her lover,
adding at the end of each response, 'provided my father gives his
consent.'[7] But, madam, though I am old enough certainly to be your
father, yet even if I had the honour to be so in reality, as you are
arrived at years of discretion, you know you cannot need my consent."
"But seriously, my excellent friend," cried she, "I never could be happy
in marrying against your approbation. And let me, in my own vindication,
explain to you the whole of the affair."
Here Mr. Palmer, dreading one of her long explanations, which he knew he
should never comprehend, besought her not to invest him with the
unbecoming character of her judge. He represented that no vindication
was necessary, and that none could be of any use. She however persisted
in going through a sentimental defence of her conduct. She assured Mr.
Palmer, that she had determined never to marry again; that her
inviolable respect for her dear Colonel Beaumont's memory had induced
her to persist in this resolution for many years. That motives of
delicacy and generosity were what first prevailed with her to listen to
Sir John's suit; and that now she consoled and supported herself by the
proud reflection, that she was acting as her dear Colonel Beaumont
himself, could he know the circumstances and read her heart, would wish
and enjoin her to act.
Here a smile seemed to play upon Mr. Palmer's countenance; but the smile
had vanished in an instant, and was followed by a sudden gush of tears,
which were as suddenly wiped away; not, however, before they reminded
Mrs. Beaumont to spread her handkerchief before her face.
"Perhaps," resumed she, after a decent pause, "perhaps I am doing wrong
with the best intentions. Some people think that widows should never, on
any account, marry again, and perhaps Mr. Palmer is of this opinion?"
"No, by no means," said Mr. Palmer; "nor was Colonel Beaumont. Often and
often he said in his letters to me, that he wished his wife to marry
again after he was gone, and to be as happy after his death as she had
been during his life. I only hope that your choice may fulfil--may
justify--" Mr. Palmer stopped again, something in Shakspeare, about
preying on garbage, ran in his head; and, when Mrs. Beaumont went on to
some fresh topics of vindication, and earnestly pressed for his
_advice_, he broke up the conference by exclaiming, "'Fore Jupiter,
madam, we had better say nothing more about the matter; for, after all,
what can the wit of man or woman make of it, but that you choose to
marry Sir John Hunter, and that nobody in the world has a right to
object to it? There is certainly no occasion to use any management with
me; and your eloquence is only wasting itself, for I am not so
presumptuous, or so unreasonable, as to set myself up for the judge of
your actions. You do me honour by consulting me; but as you already know
my opinion of the gentleman, I must decline saying any thing further on
the subject."
Mrs. Beaumont was left in a painful state of doubt as to the main point,
whether Mr. Palmer would or would not alter his will. However, as she
was determined that the match should be accomplished, she took advantage
of the declaration Mr. Palmer made, that he had no right to object to
her following her own inclinations; and she told Sir John Hunter that
Mr. Palmer was perfectly satisfied; and that he had indeed relieved her
mind from some foolish scruples, by having assured her that it was
Colonel Beaumont's particular wish, often expressed in his confidential
letters, that his widow should marry again. So far, so good. Then the
affair was to be broken to her son and daughter. She begged Mr. Palmer
would undertake, for her sake, this delicate task; but he declined it
with a frank simplicity.
"Surely, madam," said he, "you can speak without difficulty to your own
son and daughter; and I have through life observed, that employing one
person to speak to another is almost always hurtful. I should not
presume, however, to regulate your conduct, madam, by my observations; I
should only give this as a reason for declining the office with which
you proposed to honour me."
The lady, compelled to speak for herself to her son and daughter, opened
the affair to them with as much delicacy and address as she had used
with Mr. Palmer. Their surprise was great; for they had not the most
remote idea of her intentions. The result of a tedious conversation of
three hours' length was perfectly satisfactory to her, though it would
have been to the highest degree painful and mortifying to a woman of
more feeling, or one less intent upon _an establishment_, a reversionary
title, and the Wigram estate. How low she sunk in the opinion of her
children and her friends was comparatively matter of small consequence
to Mrs. Beaumont, provided she could keep fair appearances with the
world. Whilst her son and daughter were so much ashamed of her intended
marriage, that they would not communicate their sentiments even to each
other,--they, with becoming duty, agreed that Mrs. Beaumont was very
good in speaking to them on the subject; as she had an uncontroulable
right to marry as she thought proper.
Mrs. Beaumont now wrote letters innumerable to her extensive circle of
connexions and acquaintance, announcing her approaching nuptials, and
inviting them to her wedding. It was settled by Mrs. Beaumont, that the
three marriages should _take place_ on the same day. This point she
laboured with her usual address, and at last brought the parties
concerned to give up their wishes for a private wedding, to gratify her
love for show and parade. Nothing now remained but to draw the
settlements. Mrs. Beaumont, who piqued herself upon her skill in
business, and who thought the sum of wisdom was to excel in cunning,
looked over her lawyer's drafts, and suggested many nice emendations,
which obtained for her from an attorney the praise of being a vastly
clever woman. Sir John was not, on his side, deficient in attention to
his own interests. Never was there a pair better matched in this
respect; never were two people going to be married more afraid that each
should _take the other in_. Sir John, however, pressed forward the
business with an eagerness that surprised every body. Mrs. Beaumont
again and again examined the settlements, to try to account prudentially
for her lover's impatience; but she _saw_ that _all_ was right there on
her part, and her self-love at last acquiesced in the belief that Sir
John's was now the ardour of a real lover. To the lady's entire
satisfaction, the liveries, the equipages, the diamonds, the
wedding-clothes were all bought, and the wedding-day approached. Mrs.
Beaumont's rich and fashionable connexions and acquaintance all promised
to grace her nuptials. Nothing was talked of but the preparations for
Mrs. Beaumont and Sir John Hunter's marriage; and so full of business
and bustle, and mysteries, and _sentimentalities_, and vanities was she,
that she almost forgot that any body was to be married but herself. The
marriages of her son and daughter seemed so completely to merge in the
importance and splendour of her own, that she merely recollected them as
things that were to be done on the same day, as subordinate parts that
were to be acted by inferior performers, whilst she should engross the
public interest and applause. In the mean time Miss Hunter was engaged,
to Mrs. Beaumont's satisfaction and her own, in superintending the
wedding-dresses, and in preparing the most elegant dress imaginable for
herself, as bride's-maid. Now and then she interrupted these occupations
with sighs and fits of pretty sentimental dejection; but Mrs. Beaumont
was well convinced that a new lover would soon make her forget her
disappointment. The nephew was written to, and invited to spend some
time with his aunt, immediately after her marriage; for she determined
that Miss Hunter should be her niece, since she could not be her
daughter. This secondary intrigue went on delightfully in our heroine's
imagination, without interfering with the main business of her own
marriage. The day, the long-expected day, that was to crown all her
hopes, at length arrived.
CHAPTER XVI.
"On peut etre plus fin qu'un autre, mais pas plus fin que
tous les autres."--ROCHEFOUCAULT.
The following paragraph[8] extracted from the newspapers of the day,
will, doubtless, be acceptable to a large class of readers.
"FASHIONABLE HYMENEALS.
"Yesterday, Sir John Hunter, of Hunter Hall, Devonshire, Bart., led to
the hymeneal altar the accomplished Mrs. Beaumont, relict of the late
Colonel Beaumont, of Beaumont Park. On the same day her son and daughter
were also married--Mr. Beaumont to Miss Walsingham, daughter of E.
Walsingham, Esq., of Walsingham House;--and Miss Beaumont to Captain
Walsingham of the navy, a near relation of Edward Walsingham, Esq., of
Walsingham House.
"These nuptials in the Beaumont family were graced by an overflowing
concourse of beauty, nobility, and fashion, comprehending all the
relations, connexions, intimate friends, and particular acquaintances of
the interesting and popular Mrs. Beaumont. The cavalcade reached from
the principal front of the house to the south gate of the park, a
distance of three-quarters of a mile. Mrs. Beaumont and her daughter,
two lovely brides, in a superb landau, were attired in the most elegant,
becoming, fashionable, and costly manner, their dress consisting of the
finest lace, over white satin. Mrs. Beaumont's was point lace, and she
was also distinguished by a long veil of the most exquisite texture,
which added a tempered grace to beauty in its meridian. In the same
landau appeared the charming brides'-maids, all in white, of course.
Among these, Miss Hunter attracted particular attention, by the felicity
of her costume. Her drapery, which was of delicate lace, being happily
adapted to show to the greatest advantage the captivating contour of her
elegant figure, and ornamented with white silk fringe and tassels,
marked every airy motion of her sylph-like form.
"The third bride on this auspicious day was Miss Walsingham, who, with
her father and bride's-maids, followed in Mr. Walsingham's carriage.
Miss Walsingham, we are informed, was dressed with simple elegance, in
the finest produce of the Indian loom; but, as she was in a covered
carriage, we could not obtain a full view of her attire. Next to the
brides' equipages, followed the bridegrooms'. And chief of these Sir
John Hunter sported a splendid barouche. He was dressed in the height of
the ton, and his horses deserved particular admiration. After Sir John's
barouche came the equipage belonging to Mr. Beaumont, highly finished
but plain: in this were the two bridegrooms, Mr. Beaumont and Captain
Walsingham, accompanied by Mr. Palmer (the great West-Indian Palmer),
who, we understand, is the intimate friend and relative of the Beaumont
family. Then followed, as our correspondent counted, above a hundred
carriages of distinction, with a prodigious cavalcade of gentry. The
whole was closed by a long line of attendants and domestics. The moment
the park gates were opened, groups of young girls of the Beaumont
tenantry, habited in white, with knots of ribands, and emblematical
devices suited to the occasion, and with baskets of flowers in their
hands, began to strew vegetable incense before the brides, especially
before Mrs. Beaumont's landau.
'And whilst the priests accuse the bride's delay,
Roses and myrtles still obstruct her way.'
"The crowd, which assembled as they proceeded along the road to the
church, and in the churchyard, was such that, however gratefully it
evinced the popularity of the amiable parties, it became at last
evidently distressing to the principal object of their homage--Mrs.
Beaumont, who could not have stood the gaze of public admiration but for
the friendly and becoming, yet tantalizing refuge of her veil.
Constables were obliged to interfere to clear the path to the church
door, and the amiable almost fainting lady was from the arms of her
anxious and alarmed bride's-maids lifted out of her landau, and
supported into the church and up the aisle with all the marked gallantry
of true tenderness, by her happy bridegroom, Sir John Hunter.
"After the ceremony was over, Sir John and Lady Hunter, and the two
other new-married couples, returned to Beaumont Park with the _cortege_
of their friends, where the company partook of an elegant collation.
The artless graces and fascinating affability of Lady Hunter won all
hearts; and the wit, festive spirits, and politeness of Sir John,
attracted universal admiration--not to say envy, of all present.
Immediately after the collation, the happy couple set off for their
seat at Hunter Hall.
"Mr. Beaumont, and the new Mrs. Beaumont, remained at Beaumont Park.
Captain and Mrs. Walsingham repaired to Mr. Walsingham's.
"It is a singular circumstance, communicated to us by the indisputable
authority of one of the bride's-maids, that Miss Walsingham, as it was
discovered after the ceremony, was actually married with her gown the
wrong side outwards. Whether this be an omen announcing good fortune to
_all_ the parties concerned, we cannot take upon us to determine; but
this much we may safely assert, that never distinguished female in the
annals of fashion was married under more favourable auspices than the
amiable Lady Hunter. And it is universally acknowledged, that no lady is
better suited to be, as in the natural course of things she will soon
be, Countess of Puckeridge, and at the head of the great Wigram estate."
* * * * *
So ends our newspaper writer.
Probably this paragraph was sent to the press before the _fashionable
hymeneals_ had actually taken place. This may in some measure account
for the extraordinary omissions in the narrative. After the three
marriages had been solemnized, just when the ceremony was over, and Lady
Hunter was preparing to receive the congratulations of the brilliant
congregation, she observed that the clergyman, instead of shutting his
book, kept it open before him, and looked round as if expecting another
bride. Mrs. Beaumont, we should say Lady Hunter, curtsied to him,
smiled, and made a sign that the ceremony was finished; but at this
instant, to her astonishment, she saw her bride's-maid, Miss Hunter,
quit her place, and beheld Captain Lightbody seize her hand, and lead
her up towards the altar. Lady Hunter broke through the crowd that was
congratulating her, and reaching Miss Hunter, drew her hack forcibly,
and whispered, "Are you mad, Miss Hunter? Is this a place, a time for
frolic? What are you about?"
"Going to be married, ma'am! following your ladyship's good example,"
answered her bride's-maid, flippantly,--at the same time springing
forward from the detaining grasp, regardless even of the rent she made
in her lace dress, she hurried, or was hurried on by Captain Lightbody.
"Captain Lightbody!" cried Lady Hunter; but, answering only with a
triumphant bow, he passed on with his bride.
"Heavens! will nobody stop him?" cried Lady Hunter, over-taking them
again as they reached the steps. She addressed herself to the clergyman.
"Sir, she is a ward in chancery, and under my protection: they have no
licence; their banns have not been published: you cannot, dare not,
surely, marry them?"
"Pardon me, Lady Hunter," said Captain Lightbody; "I have shown Mr.
Twigg my licence."
"I have seen it--I thought it was with your ladyship's knowledge,"
replied Mr. Twigg. "I--I cannot object--it would be at my own peril. If
there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will make it at the
proper response."
A friend of Captain Lightbody's appeared in readiness to give the young
lady away.
"The ceremony must go on, madam," said the clergyman.
"At your peril, sir!" said Lady Hunter. "This young lady, is a ward of
chancery, and not of age!"
"I am of age--of age last month," cried the bride.
"Not till next year."
"Of age last month. I have the parish register," said Captain Lightbody.
"Go on, sir, if you please."
"Good Heavens! Miss Hunter, can you bear," said Lady Hunter, "to be the
object of this indecent altercation? Retire with me, and only let me
speak to you, I conjure you!"
No--the young lady stood her ground, resolute to be a bride.
"If there is any lawful impediment, your ladyship will please to make it
at the proper response," said the chaplain. "I am under a necessity of
proceeding."
The ceremony went on.
Lady Hunter, in high indignation, retired immediately to the vestry-room
with her bridegroom. "At least," cried she, throwing herself upon a
seat, "it shall never be said that I countenanced, by my presence, such
a scandalous marriage! Oh! Sir John Hunter, why did you not interfere to
save your own sister?"
"Save her! Egad, she did not choose to be saved. Who can save a woman
that does not choose it? What could I do? Is not she your ladyship's
pupil?--he! he! he! But I'll fight the rascal directly, if that will
give you any satisfaction."
"And he shall have a lawsuit too for her fortune!" said Lady Hunter;
"for she is not of age. I have a memorandum in an old pocket book. Oh!
who would have thought such a girl could have duped me so!"
Lady Hunter's exclamations were interrupted by the entrance of her son
and daughter, who came to offer what consolation they could. The
brilliant congregation poured in a few minutes afterwards, with their
mingled congratulations and condolence, eager, above all things, to
satisfy their curiosity.
Captain Lightbody, with invincible assurance, came up just as Lady
Hunter was getting into her carriage, and besought permission to present
his bride to her. But Lady Hunter, turning her back upon him without
reply, said to her son, "If Captain Lightbody is going to Beaumont Park,
I am not going there."
Mrs. Lightbody, who was now emancipated from all control, and from all
sense of propriety, called out from her _own_ carriage, in which she was
seated, "That, thank Heaven! she had a house of her own to go to, and
that nothing was farther from her thoughts than to interrupt the
festivities of Lady Hunter's more mature nuptials."
Delighted with having made this tart answer, Mrs. Lightbody ordered her
husband to order her coachman to drive off as fast as possible. The
captain, by her particular desire, had taken a house for her at
Brighton, the gayest place she could think of. We leave this amiable
bride rejoicing in the glory of having duped a lady of Mrs. Beaumont's
penetration; and her bridegroom rejoicing still more in the parish
register, by the help of which he hoped to obtain full enjoyment of what
he knew to be his bride's most valuable possession--her portion, and to
defy Lady Hunter's threatened lawsuit.
In the mean time, Lady Hunter, in her point lace and beautiful veil,
seated beside her baronet, in his new barouche, endeavoured to forget
this interruption of her triumph. She considered, that though Miss
Hunter's fortune was lost to her family, yet the title of countess, and
the Wigram estate, were _secure_: this was solid consolation; and
recovering her features from their unprecedented discomposure, she
forced smiles and looks suitable to the occasion, as she bowed to
congratulating passengers.
Arrived at Beaumont Park, she prepared, without appetite, to partake of
the elegant collation, and to do the honours with her accustomed grace:
she took care to seat Mr. Palmer beside her, that she might show the
world on what good terms they were together. She was pleased to see,
that though two younger brides sat near her, she engaged by far the
largest share of public admiration. They were so fully content and
engrossed by their own feelings, that they did not perceive that they
were what is called _thrown into the shade_. All the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of these glorious hymeneals appeared to them but as a
dream, or as a scene that was acting before them, in which they were not
called to take a part. Towards the end of the collation, one of the
guests, my Lord Rider, a nobleman who always gave himself the air of
being in a prodigious hurry, declared that he was under the necessity of
going off, for he expected a person to meet him at his house in town, on
some particular business, at an appointed day. His lordship's travelling
companion, who was unwilling to quit so prematurely the present scene of
festivity, observed that the man of business had engaged to write to his
lordship, and that he should at least wait till the post should come in.
Lady Hunter politely sent to inquire if any letters had arrived for his
lordship; and, in consequence of his impatience, all the letters for the
family were brought: Lady Hunter distributed them. There was one for
Captain Walsingham, with a Spanish motto on the seal: Lady Hunter, as
she gave it to him, whispered to Amelia, "Don't be jealous, my dear, but
that, I can tell you, is a letter from his Spanish incognita." Amelia
smiled with a look of the most perfect confidence and love. Captain
Walsingham immediately opened the letter, and, looking at the signature,
said, "It is not from my Spanish incognita,--it is from her aunt; I will
read it by and by."
"A fine evasion, indeed!" exclaimed Lady Hunter: "look how coolly he
puts it into his pocket! Ah! my credulous Amelia, do you allow him to
begin in this manner?" pursued she, in a tone of raillery, yet as if she
really suspected something wrong in the letter; "and have you no
_curiosity_, Mrs. Walsingham?"
Amelia declared that she had none; that she was not one of those who
think that jealousy is the best proof of love.
"Right, right," said Mr. Palmer; "confidence is the best proof of love;
and yours, I'll venture to say, is, and ever will be, well placed."
Captain Walsingham, with a grateful smile, took his letter again out of
his pocket, and immediately began to read it in a low voice to Amelia,
Lady Hunter, and Mr. Palmer.
* * * * *
"DEAR SIR,
"Though almost a stranger to you, I should think myself wanting in
gratitude if I did not, after all the services you have done my family,
write to thank you in my niece's name and in my own: and much I regret
that my words will so ill convey to you the sentiments of our hearts. I
am an old woman, not well accustomed to use my pen in the way of
letter-writing; but can say truly, that whilst I have life I shall be
grateful to you. You have restored me to happiness by restoring to me my
long-lost niece. It will, I am sure, give you satisfaction to hear, that
my niece--"
* * * * *
Captain Walsingham stopped short, with a look which confirmed Lady
Hunter in all her suspicions,--which made Mr. Palmer take out his
snuff-box,--which startled even Mr. Beaumont; but which did not raise
in the mind of Amelia the slightest feeling of doubt or suspicion. She
smiled, and looked round at her alarmed friends with a manner which
seemed to say, "Can you suppose it possible that there can be any
thing wrong?"
"Pray go on, Captain Walsingham," said Lady Hunter, "unless--unless you
have particular, very particular reasons."
"I have particular, very particular reasons," said Captain Walsingham;
"and since," turning to Amelia, "this confiding lady does not insist
upon my going on--"
"Oh!" said Lady Hunter, gaily, snatching the letter, "I am not such a
credulous, or, as you call it, confiding lady."
"I beg of your ladyship not to read it," said Captain Walsingham, in an
earnest tone.
"You beg of me not to read it, and with that alarmed look--Oh!
positively, I must, and will read it."
"Not at present, then, I entreat you!"
"This very instant," cried Lady Hunter, affecting all the imperious
vivacity of a young bride, under favour of which she determined to
satisfy her malicious curiosity.
"Pray, Lady Hunter, do not read it," repeated Captain Walsingham, laying
his hand over the letter. "It is for your own sake," added he, in a low
and earnest voice, "it is for your own sake, not mine, that I beg of you
to forbear."
Lady Hunter, imagining this to be only a subterfuge, drew the letter
from beneath Captain Walsingham's hand, exclaiming, "For _my sake!_ Oh,
Captain, that is a charming _ruse de guerre_, but do not hope that it
shall succeed!"
"Oh! mother, believe him, believe him," cried Amelia: "I am sure he
tells you the truth, and he speaks for your sake, not for his own."
Amelia interceded in vain.
Mr. Palmer patted Amelia's shoulder fondly, saying, "You are a dear good
creature."
"A dear credulous creature!" exclaimed Lady Hunter. She had now
undisturbed possession of the letter.
Captain Walsingham stood by with a face of great concern; in which
Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, without knowing the cause, seemed to
sympathize.
The contest had early attracted the attention of all within hearing or
view of her ladyship, and by this time had been pointed out and
accounted for in whispers, even to the most remote parts of the room; so
that the eyes of almost every individual in the assembly were now fixed
upon Lady Hunter. She had scarcely glanced her eye upon the letter, when
she turned pale as death, and exclaimed, "He knew it! he knew it!" Then,
recollecting herself, she made a struggle to conceal her dismay--the
forced smile quivered on her lip,--she fell back in a swoon, and was
carried out of the room by her son and daughter. Sir John Hunter was at
another table, eating eel-pie, and was the last person present who was
made to understand what had happened.
"It is the damned heat of the room, I suppose," said he, "that made her
faint;" and swallowing the last morsel on his plate, and settling his
collar, he came up to Captain Walsingham. "What's this I hear?--that
Lady Hunter has fainted? I hope they have carried her into the air. But
where's the letter they say affected her so?"
"In my pocket," said Captain Walsingham, coolly.
"Any thing new in it?" said Sir John, with a sulky, fashionable
indifference.
"Nothing new to you, probably, Sir John," said Captain Walsingham,
walking away from him in disgust.
"I suppose it was the heat overcame Lady Hunter," continued Sir John,
speaking to those who stood near him. "Is any body gone to see how she
is now? I wonder if they'll let me in to see her."
With assumed carelessness, but with real embarrassment, the bridegroom
went to inquire for his bride.
Good Mr. Palmer went soon afterwards, and knocked softly at the lady's
door. "Is poor Lady Hunter any better?"
"Oh! yes; quite well again now," cried Lady Hunter, raising herself from
the bed, on which she had been laid; but Mr. Palmer thought, as he saw
her through the half-opened door, she still looked a deplorable
spectacle, in all her wedding finery. "Quite well again, now: it was
nothing in the world but the heat. Amelia, my love, go back to the
company, and say so, lest my friends should be uneasy. Thank you, kind
Mr. Palmer, for coming to see me: excuse my not being able to let you in
now, for I must change my dress. Sir John sends me word his barouche
will be at the door in ten minutes, and I have to hurry on my travelling
dress. Excuse me."
Mr. Palmer retired, seeing clearly that she wished to avoid any
explanation of the real cause of her fainting. In the gallery, leading
from her room, he met Captain Walsingham, who was coming to inquire for
Lady Hunter.
"Poor woman! do you know the cause of her fainting?" said Captain
Walsingham.
"No; and I believe she does not wish me to know it: therefore don't tell
it me," said Mr. Palmer.
"It is a secret that must be in the public papers in a few days," said
Captain Walsingham. "This lady that I brought over from Lisbon--"
"Well, what can she have to say to Mrs. Beaumont?"
"Nothing to Mrs. Beaumont, but a great deal to Lady Hunter. You may
remember that I mentioned to you that some of her relations had
contrived to have her kept in that convent abroad, and had spread a
report of her death, that the heir-at-law might defraud her of her
property, and get and keep possession of a large estate, which fell to
him in case of her death. Of further particulars, or even of the name of
this estate, I knew nothing till this morning, when that letter from the
aunt--here it is--tells me, that the estate to which her niece was
entitled is the great Wigram estate, and that old Wigram was the
rascally heir-at-law. The lawyer I recommended to the lady was both an
honest and a clever fellow; and he represented so forcibly to old Wigram
the consequences of his having his fraud brought to light in a court of
equity, that he made him soon agree to a private reference. The affair
has been compromised, and settled thus:--The possession of the estate is
given up, just as it stands, to the rightful owner; and she forbears to
call the old sinner to an account for past arrears. She will let him
make it out to the world and to his own conscience, if he can, that he
bona-fide believed her to be dead."
"So," said Mr. Palmer, "so end Madam Beaumont's hopes of being at the
head of the Wigram estate, and so end her hopes of being a
countess!--And actually married to this ruined spendthrift!--Now we see
the reason he pressed on the match so, and urged her to marry him before
the affair should become public. She is duped, and for life!--poor Madam
Beaumont!"
At this moment Lady Hunter came out of her room, after having changed
her dress, and repaired her smiles.
"Ready for my journey now," said she, passing by Mr. Palmer quickly. "I
must show myself to the world of friends below, and bid them adieu. One
word, Captain Walsingham: there's no occasion, you know," whispered she,
"to say any thing _below_ of that letter; I really don't believe it."
Too proud to let her mortification be known, Lady Hunter constrained her
feelings with all her might. She appeared once more with a pleased
countenance in the festive assembly. She received their compliments and
congratulations, and invited them, with all the earnestness of
friendship, to favour Sir John and her, as soon as possible, with their
company at Hunter Hall. The company were now fast departing; carriages
came to the door in rapid succession. Lady Hunter went through with
admirable grace and variety the sentimental ceremony of taking leave;
and when her splendid barouche was at the door, and when she was to bid
adieu to her own family, still she acted her part inimitably. In all the
becoming mixed smiles and tears of a bride, she was seen embracing by
turns her beloved daughter and son, and daughter-in-law and son-in-law,
over and over again, in the hall, on the steps; to the last moment
contriving to be torn delightfully from the bosom of her family by her
impatient bridegroom. Seated beside him in his barouche, she kissed her
hand to Mr. Palmer,--smiled: all her family, who stood on the steps,
bowed; and Sir John drove away with his prize.
"He's a swindler!" cried Mr. Palmer, "and she is--"
"Amelia's mother," interrupted Captain Walsingham.
"Right," said Mr. Palmer; "but Amelia had a father too,--my excellent
friend, Colonel Beaumont,--whom she and her brother resemble in all that
is open-hearted and honourable. Well, well! I make no reflections; I
hate moral reflections. Every body can think and feel for themselves, I
presume. I only say,--Thank Heaven, we've done with _manoeuvring!_"
ALMERIA.
John Hodgkinson was an eminent and wealthy Yorkshire grazier, who had
no children of his own, but who had brought up in his family Almeria
Turnbull, the daughter of his wife by a former husband, a Mr. Turnbull.
Mr. Turnbull had also been a grazier, but had not been successful in
the management of his affairs, therefore he could not leave his
daughter any fortune; and at the death of her mother, she became
entirely dependent on her father-in-law. Old Hodgkinson was a whimsical
man, who, except in eating and drinking, had no inclination to spend
any part of the fortune he had made; but, enjoying the consequence
which money confers, endeavoured to increase this importance by keeping
all his acquaintance in uncertainty, as to what he called his
"_testamentary dispositions_." Sometimes he hinted that his
step-daughter should be a match for the proudest riband in England;
sometimes he declared, that he did not know of what use money could be
to a woman, except to make her a prey to a fortune-hunter, and that his
girl should not be left in a way to be duped.
As to his daughter's education, that was an affair in which he did not
interfere: all that he wished was, that the girl should be kept humble,
and have no fine notions put into her head, nor any communication with
fine people. He kept company only with men of his own sort; and as he
had no taste for any kind of literature, Almeria's time would have hung
rather heavy upon her hands, had she been totally confined to his
society: but, fortunately for her, there lived in the neighbourhood an
elderly gentleman and his daughter, whom her father allowed her to
visit. Mr. Elmour was a country gentleman of a moderate fortune, a
respectable family, and of a most amiable character: between his
daughter Ellen and Miss Turnbull there had subsisted an intimacy from
their earliest childhood. The professions of this friendship had
hitherto been much the warmest on the part of Almeria; the proofs were,
perhaps, the strongest on the side of Ellen. Miss Elmour, as the
daughter of a gentleman, whose family had been long settled in the
country, was rather _more considered_ than Miss Turnbull, who was the
daughter of a grazier, whose money had but lately raised him to the
level of gentility. At Mr. Elmour's house Almeria had an opportunity of
being in much better company than she could ever have seen at her
father's; better company in every respect, but chiefly in the popular,
or more properly in the aristocratic sense of the term: her visits had
consequently been long and frequent; she appeared to have a peculiar
taste for refinement in manners and conversation, and often deplored the
want she felt of these at home. She expressed a strong desire to acquire
information, and to improve herself in every elegant accomplishment; and
Ellen, who was of a character far superior to the little meanness of
female competition and jealousy, shared with her friend all the
advantages of her situation. Old Hodgkinson never had any books in his
house, but such as Almeria borrowed from Mr. Elmour's library. Ellen
constantly sent Miss Turnbull all the new publications which her father
got from town--she copied for her friend the new music with which she
was supplied, showed her every new drawing or print, gave her the
advantage of the lessons she received from an excellent drawing master,
and let her into those little mysteries of art which masters sometimes
sell so dear.
This was done with perfect readiness and simplicity: Ellen never seemed
conscious that she was bestowing a favour; but appeared to consider what
she did as matters of course, or as the necessary consequences of
friendship. She treated her friend at all times, and in all companies,
with that uniform attention and equality of manner, which most people
profess, and which so few have strength of mind to practise. Almeria
expressed, and probably at this time felt, unbounded gratitude and
affection for Ellen; indeed her expressions were sometimes so vehement,
that Miss Elmour rallied her for being romantic. Almeria one day
declared, that she should wish to pass all the days of her life at
Elmour Grove, without seeing any other human creatures but her friend
and her friend's father.
"Your imagination deceives you, my dear Almeria," said Ellen, smiling.
"It is my heart, not my imagination, that speaks," said Almeria, laying
her hand upon her heart, or upon the place where she fancied her heart
ought to be.
"Your understanding will, perhaps, speak a different language by and by,
and your heart will not be the worse for it, my good young lady," said
old Mr. Elmour.
Almeria persisted even to tears; and it was not till young Mr. Elmour
came home, and till she had spent a few weeks in his company, that she
began to admit that three was the number sacred to friendship. Frederick
Elmour was a man of honour, talents, spirit, and of a decided character:
he was extremely fond of his sister, and was prepossessed in favour of
every thing and person that she loved. Her intimate friend was
consequently interesting to him; and it must be supposed, that Miss
Elmour's praises of Almeria were managed more judiciously than eulogiums
usually are, by the effect which they produced. Frederick became
attached to Miss Turnbull, though he perceived that, in firmness and
dignity of character, she was not equal to his sister. This inferiority
did not injure her in his opinion, because it was always acknowledged
with so much candour and humility by Almeria, who seemed to look up to
her friend as to a being of a superior order. This freedom from envy,
and this generous enthusiasm, first touched young Mr. Elmour's heart.
Next to possessing his sister's virtues and talents, loving them was, in
his opinion, the greatest merit. He thought that a person capable of
appreciating and admiring Ellen's character, must be desirous of
imitating her; and the similarity of their tastes, opinions, and
principles, seemed to him the most secure pledge for his future
happiness. Miss Turnbull's fortune, whatever it might be, was an object
of no great importance to him: his father, though not opulent, was in
easy circumstances, and was "willing," he said, "to deprive himself of
some luxuries for the sake of his son, whom he would not controul in the
choice of a wife--a choice on which he knew, from his own experience,
that the happiness of life so much depends."
The benevolent old gentleman had peculiar merit in this conduct; because
if he had a weakness in the world, it was a prejudice in favour of what
is called _good family and birth_: it had long been the secret wish of
his heart that his only son might marry into a family as ancient as his
own. Frederick was fully sensible of the sacrifice that his father made
of his pride: but that which he was willing to make of what he called
his luxuries, his son's affection and sense of justice forbade him to
accept. He could not rob his father of any of the comforts of his
declining years, whilst in the full vigour of youth it was in his power,
by his own exertions, to obtain an independent maintenance. He had been
bred to the bar; no expense had been spared by his father in his
education, no efforts had been omitted by himself. He was now ready to
enter on the duties of his profession with ardour, but without
presumption.
Our heroine must be pardoned by the most prudent, and admired by the
most romantic, for being desperately in love with a youth of such a
character and such expectations. Whilst the young lady's passion was
growing every hour more lively, her old father was growing every hour
more lethargic. He had a superstitious dread of making a will, as if it
were a preparation for death, which would hasten the fatal moment.
Hodgkinson's friends tried to conquer this prejudice: but it was in vain
to reason with a man who had never reasoned during the whole of his life
about any thing except bullocks. Old Hodgkinson died--that was a matter
of no great consequence to any body--but he died without a will, and
that was a matter of some importance to his daughter. After searching in
every probable and improbable place, there was, at length, found in his
own handwriting a memorandum, the beginning of which was in the first
leaf of his cookery-book, and the end in the last leaf of his
prayer-book. There was some difficulty in deciphering the memorandum,
for it was cross-barred with miscellaneous observations in inks of
various colours--red, blue, and green. As it is dangerous to garble law
papers, we shall lay the document before the public just as it appeared.
_Copy from first leaf of the Cookery-look_.
I John Hodgkinson of Vetch-field, East Riding of Yorkshire, Grazier and
so forth, not choosing to style myself Gentleman, though entitled so to
do, do hereby certify, that when I can find an honest attorney, _it is
my_ intention to make my will and to leave--
[_Here the testator's memorandum was interrupted by a receipt in a
diminutive female hand, seemingly written some years before_.]
Mrs. Turnbull's recipe, infallible for all aches, bruises, and strains.
Take a handful of these herbs following--Wormwood, Sage, Broom-flowers,
Clown's-All-heal, Chickweed, Cumphry, Birch, Groundsell, Agremony,
Southernwood, Ribwort, Mary Gould leaves, Bramble, Rosemary, Rue,
Eldertops, Camomile, Aly Campaigne-root, half a handful of Red
Earthworms, two ounces of Cummins-seeds, Deasy-roots, Columbine, Sweet
Marjoram, Dandylion, Devil's bit, six pound of May butter, two pound of
Sheep suet, half a pound of Deer suet, a quart of salet oil beat well in
y' boiling till the oil be green--Then strain--It will be better if you
add a dozen of Swallows, and pound all their Feathers, Gizzards, and
Heads before boiling--It will cure all aches--[9]
[_Beneath this valuable recipe, Mr. Hodgkinson's testamentary
dispositions continued as follows_.]
All I am worth in the world real or personal--
To Collar a Pig.
Take a young fat pig, and when he is well scalded, cut off his
head, then slit him down the back, take out his bones, lay him in a
dish of milk and water, and shift him twice a day--for the rest,
turn to page 103.
To my step-daughter Almeria, who is now at Elmour Grove in her
eighteenth year--
[_Written across the above in red ink_.]
Mem'm--I prophecy this third day of August, that the man from Hull will
be here to-morrow with _fresh_ mullets.
And as girls go, I believe a good girl, considering the times--but if
she disoblige me by marriage, or otherwise, I hereby revoke the same.
[_Written diagonally in red ink_.]
Mem'm--Weight of the Big Bullock, 90 score, besides offal.
[_The value was so pale it could not be deciphered_.]
And I further intend to except out of my above bequest to my daughter
Almeria, the sum of ...
A fine method to make Punch of Valentia dram. v. page 7.
Ten thousand pounds, now in Sir Thomas Stock's my banker's hands as a
token of remembrance to John Hodgkinson of Hull, on account of his
being my namesake, and, I believe, relation--
* * * * *
[_Continuation in the last leaf of the prayer-book_.]
It is my further intention (whenever I find said honest attorney fit for
my will) to leave sundry mourning rings with my hair value (_blank_)--
one in particular to Charles Elmour, sen. esquire, and also--
[_Upside down, in red ink_.]
Mem'm--Yorkshire Puddings--Knox says good in my case.
Hodgkinson late
Hannah A Turnbull (my wife)
her prayer book,
born Dec'r 5th, 1700,
died Jan'y 4th, 1760;
leaving only behind her, in this world, Almeria Turnbull
(my step daughter).
Also another mourning ring to Frederick, the son of Charles Elmour, Esq.
and ditto to Ellen his daughter, if I have hair enough under my wig.
[_Diagonal in red ink_.]
Mem'm--To know from Dr. Knox by return of post what is good against
sleep--in my case--
This is the short of my will--the attorney (when found) will make it
long enough.--And I hereby declare, that I will write no other will with
my own hand, for man, woman, or child--And that I will and do hereby
disinherit any person or persons--male or female--good--bad--or
indifferent--who shall take upon them to advise or speak to me about
making or writing my will--which is no business of theirs--This my last
resolution and memorandum, dated, this 5th of August--reap to-morrow,
(glass rising)--1766, and signed with my own hand, same time.
John Hodgkinson, grazier & so forth.
* * * * *
Now it happened, that Mr. Hodgkinson's namesake and relation disdained
the ten thousand pounds legacy, and claimed the whole property as
heir-at-law. Almeria, who was utterly unacquainted with business,
applied to Mr. Elmour in this difficulty, and he had the goodness to
undertake the management of her affairs. Frederick engaged to carry on
her law-suit, and to plead her cause against this rapacious Mr.
Hodgkinson of Hull.--Whilst the suit was pending, Miss Turnbull had an
opportunity of seeing something of the ways of the world; for the
manners of her Yorkshire acquaintance, of all but Ellen and the Elmours,
varied towards her, according to the opinion formed of the probable
event of the trial on which her fortune depended. She felt these
variations most keenly. In particular, she was provoked by the conduct
of Lady Stock, who was at this time _the_ fashionable lady of York: Sir
Thomas, her husband, was a great banker; and whenever she condescended
to visit her friends in the country, she shone upon them in all the
splendour and pride of wealth. Miss Turnbull, immediately after her
father's death, went, accompanied by old Mr. Elmour, to Sir Thomas
Stock, to settle accounts with him: she was received by his lady as a
great heiress, with infinite civility; her visit punctually returned,
and an invitation to dinner sent to her and the Elmours with all due
expedition. As she seemed to wish to accept of it, her friends agreed to
accompany her, though in general they disliked fine dinners; and though
they seldom left their retirement to mix in the gaieties of York. Miss
Turnbull was received in rather a different manner from what she
expected upon this occasion; for between the sending and the accepting
of the invitation, Lady Stock had heard that her title to the fortune
was disputed, and that many were of an opinion that, instead of having
two hundred thousand pounds, she would not have a shilling. Almeria was
scarcely noticed, on her entrance, by the lady of the house; she found
herself in a formidable circle, where every body seemed to consider her
as being out of her place. At dinner she was suffered to go to a
side-table. From the moment she entered the house till she left it, Lady
Stock never deigned to speak to her, nor for one instant to recollect
that such a person existed. Not even Madame Roland, when she was sent to
the second table at the fermier general's, expressed more indignation
than Almeria did, at the insolence of this banker's lady. She could
think and speak of nothing else, all the time she was going home in the
evening to Elmour Grove. Ellen, who had more philosophy than our
heroine, did not sympathize in the violence of her indignation: on the
contrary, she was surprised that Almeria could feel so much hurt by the
slights of a woman, for whom she had neither esteem nor affection, and
with whom she was indeed scarcely acquainted.
"But does not her conduct excite your indignation?" said Miss Turnbull.
"No: it rather deserves my contempt. If a friend--if you, for instance,
had treated me in such a manner, it would have provoked my anger, I
dare say."
"I! Oh, how impossible!" cried Almeria. "Such insufferable pride! Such
downright rudeness!--She was tolerably civil to you, but me she never
noticed: and this sudden change, it seems, Frederick, arises from her
doubts of my fortune.--Is not such meanness really astonishing?"
"It would be astonishing, perhaps," replied Frederick, "if we did not
see similar instances every day.--Lady Stock, you know, is nothing but a
mere woman of the world."
"I hate mere women of the world," cried Almeria.
Ellen observed, that it was not worth while to hate, it was sufficient
to avoid them.--Almeria grew warmer in her abhorrence; and Ellen at last
expressed, half in jest, half in earnest, some fear, that if Miss
Turnbull felt with such exquisite sensibility the neglect of persons of
fashion, she might in a different situation be ambitious, or vain of
their favour. Almeria was offended, and was very near quarrelling with
her friend for harbouring such a mean opinion of her character.
"Do you imagine that _I could_ ever make a friend of such a person as
Lady Stock?"
"A friend! far from it. I am very sure that you could not."
"Then how could I be ambitious of her favour? I am desirous only of the
favour, esteem, and affection of my friends."
"But people who live in what is called the world, you know, my dear
Almeria, desire to have acquaintance as well as friends," said Ellen;
"and they value those by their fashion or rank, and by the honour which
may be received from their notice in public places."
"Yes, my dear," interrupted Almeria; "though I have never been in
London, as you have, I understand all that perfectly well, I assure you;
but I only say, that I am certain I should never judge, and that I
should never act, in such a manner."
Ellen smiled, and said, "It is difficult to be certain of what we should
do in situations in which we have never been placed."--Almeria burst
into tears, and her friend could scarcely pacify her by the kindest
expressions.
"Observe, my dear Almeria, that I said _we,_ not _you_: I do not pretend
that, till I have been tried, I could be certain of my own strength of
mind in new situations: I believe it is from weakness, that people are
often so desirous of the notice of persons for whom they have no esteem.
If I were forced to live among a certain set of company, I suppose I
should, in time, do just as they do; for I confess, that I do not think
I could bear every day to be utterly neglected in society, even such as
we have been in to-day."
Almeria wondered to hear her friend speak with so little confidence of
her own spirit and independence; and vehemently declared that she was
certain no change of external circumstances could make any alteration in
her sentiments and feelings. Ellen forbore to press the subject farther,
although the proofs which Almeria had this day given of her stoicism
were not absolutely conclusive.
About a month after this conversation had passed, the suit against Miss
Turnbull, to set aside Mr. Hodgkinson's will, was tried at York. The
court was crowded at an early hour; for much entertainment was expected,
from the oddity of old Hodgkinson's _testamentary dispositions_:
besides, the large amount of the property at stake could not fail to
make the cause interesting. Several ladies appeared in the galleries;
among the rest, Lady Stock--Miss Elmour was there also, to accompany
Almeria--Frederick was one of her counsel; and when it came to his turn
to speak, he pleaded her cause with so much eloquence and ability, as to
obtain universal approbation. After a trial, which lasted many hours, a
verdict was given in Miss Turnbull's favour. An immediate change
appeared in the manners of all her acquaintance--they crowded round her
with smiles and congratulations; and persons with whom she was scarcely
acquainted, or who had, till now, hardly deigned to acknowledge her
acquaintance, accosted her with an air of intimacy. Lady Stock, in
particular, recovered, upon this occasion, both her sight and speech:
she took Almeria's hand most graciously, and went on chattering with the
greatest volubility, as they stood at the door of the court-house. Her
ladyship's handsome equipage had drawn up, and she offered to carry Miss
Turnbull home: Almeria excused herself, but felt ashamed, when she saw
the look of contempt which her ladyship bestowed on Mr. Elmour's old
coach, which was far behind a number of others, and which could but ill
bear a comparison with a new London carriage. Angry with herself for
this weakness, our heroine endeavoured to conceal it even from her own
mind; and feelings of gratitude to her friends revived in her heart the
moment she was out of the sight of her fine acquaintance. She treated
Ellen with even more than usual fondness; and her acknowledgments of
obligation to her counsel and his father were expressed in the strongest
terms. In a few days, there came a pressing invitation from Lady Stock;
Mr. Elmour had accounts of Miss Turnbull's to settle with Sir Thomas,
and, notwithstanding the air of indifference with which she read the
cards, Almeria was not sorry to accept of the invitation, as she knew
that she should be received in a very different manner from that in
which she had been treated on her former visit. She laughed, and said,
"that she should be entertained by observing the change which a few
thousand pounds more or less could produce in Lady Stock's behaviour."
Yet, such is the inconsistency or the weakness of human wishes, that the
very attentions which our heroine knew were paid merely to her fortune,
and not to her merit, flattered her vanity; and she observed, with a
strange mixture of pain and pleasure, that there was a marked difference
in Lady Stock's manner towards her and _the Elmours_. When the evening
was over, and when she "had leisure to be good," Almeria called herself
severely to account for this secret satisfaction, of which she had been
conscious from the preference given her over her friends--she accused
herself of ingratitude, and endeavoured to recover her own
self-complacency by redoubled professions of esteem and affection for
those to whom she had so much reason to be attached. But fresh
invitations came from Lady Stock, and the course of her thoughts again
changed. Ellen declined accompanying her; and Miss Turnbull regretted
this exceedingly, because it would be so distressing and awkward for her
to go _alone_."
"Then why do you go at all, my dear?" said Ellen; "you speak as if there
were some moral necessity for your visit."
"Moral necessity! oh, no," said Almeria, laughing; "but I really think
there is a _polite_ necessity, if you will allow me the expression.
Would it not be rude for all of us to refuse, when Lady Stock has made
this music party, as she says, entirely on my account--on our account, I
mean? for you see she mentions your fondness for music; and if she had
not written so remarkably civilly to you, I assure you I would neither
go myself, nor think of pressing you to go."
This oratory had no effect upon Ellen: our heroine went alone to the
music meeting. The old coach returned to Elmour Grove at night,
empty--the servant brought "Lady Stock's compliments, and she would send
her carriage home with Miss Turnbull early the next morning." After
waiting above an hour and a half beyond their usual time, the family
were sitting down to dinner the next day, when Miss Turnbull, in Lady
Stock's fine carriage, drove up the avenue--Frederick handed her out of
the carriage with more ceremony and less affection than he had ever
shown before. Old Mr. Elmour's manner was also more distant, and Ellen's
colder. Almeria attempted to apologize, but could not get through her
speech:--she then tried to laugh at her own awkwardness; but her laugh
not being seconded, she sat down to dinner in silence, colouring
prodigiously, and totally abashed. Good old Mr. Elmour was the first to
relent, and to endeavour, by resuming his usual kind familiarity, to
relieve her painful confusion. Ellen's coolness was also dissipated when
Miss Turnbull took her aside after dinner, and with tears in her eyes
declared, "she was sorry she had not had sufficient strength of mind to
resist Lady Stock's importunities to stay all night;--that as to the
carriage, it was sent back without her knowledge; and that this morning,
though she had three or four times expressed her fears that she should
keep her friends at Elmour Grove waiting for dinner, yet Lady Stock
would not understand her hints;" and she declared, "she got away the
very instant her ladyship's carriage came to the door." By Ellen's kind
interposition, Frederick, whose pride had been most ready to take the
alarm at the least appearance of slight to his father and sister, was
pacified--he laid aside his ceremony to _Miss Turnbull_; called her
"Almeria," as he used to do--and all was well again. With difficulty and
blushes, Almeria came out with an after-confession, that she had been so
silly as to make half a promise to Lady Stock, of going to her ball, and
of spending a few days with her at York, before she left the country.
"But this promise was only conditional," said she: "if you or your
father would take it the least ill or unkindly of me, I assure you I
will not go--I would rather offend all the Lady Stocks in the world than
you, my dearest Ellen, or your father, to whom I am so much obliged."
"Do not talk of obligations," interrupted Ellen; "amongst friends
there can be no obligations. I will answer for it that my father will
not be offended at your going to this ball; and I assure you I shall
not take it unkindly. If you would not think me very proud, I should
tell you that I wish for our sakes, as well as your own, that you
should see as much of this Lady Stock, and as many _Lady Stocks_, as
possible; for I am convinced that, upon _intimate_ acquaintance, we
must rise in your opinion."
Almeria protested that she had never for an instant thought of comparing
Ellen with Lady Stock. "A friend, a bosom friend, with an
acquaintance--an acquaintance of yesterday!--I never thought of making
such a comparison."
"That is the very thing of which I complain," said Ellen, smiling: "I
beg you will make the comparison, my dear Almeria; and the more
opportunities you have of forming your judgment, the better."
Notwithstanding that there was something rather humiliating to Miss
Turnbull in the dignified composure with which Ellen now, for the first
time in her life, implied her own superiority, Almeria secretly rejoiced
that it was at her friend's own request that the visits to her fine
acquaintance were repeated. At Lady Stock's ball Miss Turnbull was much
_distinguished,_ as it is called--Sir Thomas's eldest son was her
partner; and though he was not remarkably agreeable, yet his attentions
were flattering to her vanity, because the rival belles of York vied for
his homage. The delight of being taken notice of in public was new to
Almeria, and it quite intoxicated her brain. Six hours' sleep afterwards
were not sufficient to sober her completely; as her friends at Elmour
Grove perceived the next morning--she neither talked, looked, nor moved
like herself, though she was perfectly unconscious that in this delirium
of vanity and affectation she was an object of pity and disgust to the
man she loved.
Ellen had sufficient good-nature and candour to make allowance for
foibles in others from which her own character was totally free; she was
clear-sighted to the merits, but not blind to the faults, of her
friends; and she resolved to wait patiently till Almeria should return
to herself. Miss Turnbull, in compliance with her friend's advice, took
as many opportunities as possible of being with Lady Stock. Her
ladyship's company was by no means agreeable to Almeria's natural taste;
for her ladyship had neither sense nor knowledge, and her conversation
consisted merely of common-place phrases, or the second-hand affectation
of fashionable nonsense: yet, though Miss Turnbull felt no actual
pleasure in her company, she was vain of being of her parties, and even
condescended to repeat some of her sayings, in which there was neither
sense nor wit. From having lived much in the London world, her ladyship
was acquainted with a prodigious number of names of persona of
consequence and quality; and by these our heroine's ears were charmed.
Her ladyship's dress was also an object of admiration and imitation, and
the York ladies begged patterns of every thing she wore. Almeria
consequently thought that no other clothes could be worn with propriety;
and she was utterly ashamed of her past self for having lived so long in
ignorance, and for having had so bad a taste, as ever to have thought
Ellen Elmour a model for imitation.
"Miss Elmour," her ladyship said, "was a very sensible young woman, no
doubt; but she could hardly be considered as a model of fashion."
A new standard for estimating merit was raised in Almeria's mind; and
her friend, for an instant, sunk before the vast advantage of having the
most fashionable mantua-maker and milliner in town. Ashamed of this
dereliction of principle, she a few minutes afterwards warmly pronounced
a panegyric on Ellen, to which Lady Stock only replied with a vacant,
supercilious countenance, "May be so--no doubt--of course--the Elmours
are a very respectable family, I'm told--and really more genteel than
the country families one sees: but is not it odd, they don't _mix more?_
One seldom meets them in town any where, or at any of the
watering-places in summer."
To this charge, Almeria, with blushes, was forced to plead guilty for
her friends: she, however, observed, in mitigation, "that when they were
in town, what company they did see was always the best, she
believed--that she knew, for one person, the Duchess of A---- was a
friend of the Elmours, and corresponded with Ellen."
This judicious defence produced an immediate effect upon Lady Stock's
countenance; her eyebrows descended from the high arch of contempt: and
after a pause, she remarked, "it was strange that they had not accepted
of any of the invitations she had lately sent them--she fancied they
were, as indeed they had the character of being, very proud people--and
very odd."
Almeria denied the pride and the oddity; but observed, "that they were
all remarkably fond of _home_."
"Well, my dear Miss Turnbull, that's what I call odd; but I am sure I
have nothing to say against all that--it is the fashion now to let every
body do as they please: if the Elmours like to bury themselves alive,
I'm sure I can't have the smallest objection; I only hope they don't
insist upon burying you along with them--I'm going to Harrowgate for a
few days, and I must have you with me, my dear."
Our heroine hesitated. Lady Stock smiled, and said, she saw Miss
Turnbull was terribly afraid of these Elmours; that for her part, she
was the last person in the world to break through old connexions; but
that really some people ought to consider that other people cannot
always live as they do; that one style of life was fit for one style of
fortune, and one for another; and that it would look very strange to the
world, if an heiress with two hundred thousand pounds fortune, who if
she produced herself might be in the first circles in town, were to be
boxed up at Elmour Grove, and precluded from all advantages and offers
that she might of course expect.
To do our heroine justice, she here interrupted Lady Stock with more
eagerness than strict politeness admitted, and positively declared that
her friends never for one moment wished to confine her at Elmour Grove.
"On the contrary," said she, "they urged me to go into company, and to
see something of the world, before I--" marry, she was going to
say--but paused.
Lady Stock waited for the finishing word; but when it did not come, she
went on just as if it had been pronounced. "The Elmours do vastly right
and proper to talk to you in this style, for they would be very much
blamed in the world if they acted otherwise. You know, young Elmour has
his fortune to make--very clever certainly he is, and will rise--no
doubt--I'm told--in his profession--but all that is not the same as a
ready-made fortune, which an heiress like you has a right to expect. But
do not let me annoy you with my reflections. Perhaps there is nothing in
the report--I really only repeat what I hear every body say. In what
every body says, you know there must be something. I positively think
you ought to show, in justice to the Elmours themselves, that you are at
liberty, and that they do not want to monopolize you--in this
unaccountable sort of way."
To this last argument our heroine yielded, or to this she chose to
attribute her yielding. She went to Harrowgate with Lady Stock; and
every day and every hour she became more desirous of appearing
fashionable. To this one object all her thoughts were directed. Living
in public was to her a new life, and she was continually sensible of her
dependence upon the opinion of her more experienced companion. She felt
the _awkwardness_ of being surrounded by people with whom she was
unacquainted. At first, whenever she appeared she imagined that every
body was looking at her, or talking about her, and she was in perpetual
apprehension that something in her dress or manners should become the
subject of criticism or ridicule: but from this fear she was soon
relieved, by the conviction that most people were so occupied with
themselves as totally to overlook her. Sometimes indeed she heard the
whispered question of "Who is that with Lady Stock?" and the mortifying
answer, "I do not know." However, when Lady Stock had introduced her to
some of her acquaintance as a great heiress, the scene changed, and she
found herself treated with much _consideration_; though still the
fashionable belles took sufficient care to make her sensible of her
inferiority. She longed to be upon an equal footing with them. Whilst
her mind was in this state, Sir Thomas Stock, one morning, when he was
settling some money business with her, observed that she would in
another year be of age, and of course would take her affairs into her
own hands; but in the mean time it would be necessary to appoint a
guardian; and that the choice depended upon herself. She instantly named
her friend Mr. Elmour. Sir Thomas insinuated that old Mr. Elmour, though
undoubtedly a most unexceptionable character, was not exactly the most
eligible person for a guardian to a young lady, whose large fortune
entitled her to live in a fashionable style. That if it was Miss
Turnbull's intention to fix in the country, Mr. Elmour certainly was
upon the spot, and a very fit guardian; but that if she meant to appear,
as doubtless she would, in town, she would of course want another
conductor.
"To cut the matter short at once, my dear," said Lady Stock, "you must
come to town with me next winter, and choose Sir Thomas for your
guardian. I'm sure it will give him the greatest pleasure in the world
to do any thing in his power--and you will have no difficulties with
him; for you see he is not a man to bore you with all manner of advice;
in short, he would only be your guardian for form's sake; and that, you
know, would be the pleasantest footing imaginable. Come, here is a pen
and ink and gilt paper; write to old Elmour this minute, and let me have
you all to myself."
Almeria was taken by surprise: she hesitated--all her former
professions, all her obligations to the Elmour family, recurred to her
mind--her friendship for Ellen--her love, or what she had thought love,
for Frederick:--she could not decide upon a measure that might offend
them, or appear ungrateful; yet her desire of going to town with Lady
Stock was ardent, and she knew not how to refuse Sir Thomas's offer
without displeasing him. She saw that all future connexion with _the
Stocks_ depended on her present determination--she took a middle course,
and suggested that she might have two guardians, and then she should be
able to avail herself of Sir Thomas's obliging offer without offending
her old friends. In consequence of this convenient arrangement, she
wrote to Mr. Elmour, enclosing her letter in one to Ellen, in which the
embarrassment and weakness of her mind were evident, notwithstanding all
her endeavours to conceal them. After a whole page of incomprehensible
apologies, for having so long delayed to write to her dearest Ellen; and
after professions of the warmest affection, esteem, and gratitude, for
her friends at Elmour Grove; she in the fourth page of her epistle
opened her real business, by declaring that she should ever, from the
conviction she felt of the superiority of Ellen's understanding, follow
her judgment, however repugnant it might sometimes be to her
inclinations; that she therefore had resolved, in pursuance of Ellen's
advice, to take an opportunity of seeing the gay world, and had accepted
of an invitation from Lady Stock to spend the winter with her in
town--that she had also accepted of Sir Thomas Stock's offer to become
one of her guardians, as she thought it best to trouble her good friend
Mr. Elmour as little as possible at his advanced age.
In answer to this letter, she received a few lines from Mr. Elmour,
requesting to see her before she should go to town: accordingly upon her
return to York, she went to Elmour Grove to take leave of her friends.
She was under some anxiety, but resolved to carry it off with that ease,
or affectation of ease, which she had learnt during her six weeks'
apprenticeship to a fine lady at Harrowgate. She was surprised that no
Frederick appeared to greet her arrival; the servant showed her into Mr.
Elmour's study. The good old gentleman received her with that proud sort
of politeness, which was always the sign, and the only sign, of his
being displeased.
"You will excuse me, Miss Turnbull," said he, "for giving you the
trouble of coming here; it was my business to have waited on you, but I
have been so far unwell lately, that it was not in my power to leave
home; and these are papers," continued he, "which I thought it my duty
to deliver into your own hands."
Whilst Mr. Elmour was tying up these papers, and writing upon them,
Almeria began two sentences with "I hope," and "I am afraid," without in
the least knowing what she hoped or feared. She was not yet sufficiently
perfect in the part of a fine lady to play it well. Mr. Elmour looked up
from his writing with an air of grave attention when she began to speak,
but after waiting in vain for an intelligible sentence, he proceeded.
"You have judged very wisely for me, Miss Turnbull, in relieving my
declining years from the fatigue of business: no man understands the
management or the value of money better than Sir Thomas Stock, and you
could not, madam, in this point of view, have chosen a more proper
guardian."
Almeria said, "that she hoped Mr. Elmour would always permit her to
consider him as her best friend, to whose advice she should have
recourse in preference to that of any person upon earth;" recovering her
assurance as she went on speaking, and recollecting some of the hints
Lady Stock had given her, about the envy and jealousy of the Elmours,
and of their scheme of monopolizing her fortune; she added a few
commonplace phrases about respectability--gratitude--and great
obligations--then gave a glance at Lady Stock's handsome carriage, which
was waiting at the door--then asked for Miss Elmour--and hoped she
should not be so unfortunate as to miss seeing her before she left the
country, as she came on purpose to take leave of her--then looked at her
watch:--but all this was said and done with the awkwardness of a novice
in the art of giving herself airs. Mr. Elmour, without being in the
least irritated by her manner, was all the time considering how he could
communicate, with the least possible pain, what he had further to
say--"You speak of me, Miss Turnbull, as of one of your guardians, in
the letter I had the favour of receiving from you a few days ago," said
he; "but you must excuse me for declining that honour. Circumstances
have altered materially since I first undertook the management of your
affairs, and my future interference, or perhaps even my advice, might
not appear as disinterested as formerly."
Miss Turnbull here interrupted him with an exclamation of
astonishment, and made many protestations of entire dependence upon
his disinterested friendship. He waited with proud patience till she
had finished her eulogium.
"How far the generous extent of your confidence, madam, reaches, or may
hereafter reach," said he, "must be tried by others, not by me--nor yet
by my son."
Almeria changed colour.
"He has left it to me, madam, to do that for him, which perhaps he
feared he might not have sufficient resolution to do for himself--to
return to you these letters and this picture; and to assure you that he
considers you as entirely at liberty to form any connexion that may be
suited to your present views and circumstances."
Mr. Elmour put into her hand a packet of her own letters to Frederick,
and a miniature picture of herself, which she had formerly given to
her lover. This was an unexpected stroke. His generosity--his firmness
of character--the idea of losing him for ever--all rushed upon her
mind at once.
Artificial manners vanish the moment the natural passions are touched.
Almeria clasped her hands in an agony of grief, and exclaimed, "Is he
gone? gone for ever?--I have deserved it!"--The letters and picture
fell from her hand, and she sunk back quite overpowered. When she
recovered, she found herself in the open air on a seat under Mr.
Elmour's study windows, and Ellen beside her.
"Pity, forgive, and advise me, my dear, my best, my only real friend,"
said Almeria: "never did I want your advice so much as at this moment."
"You shall have it, then, without reserve," said Ellen, "and without
fear that it should be attributed to any unworthy motive. I could almost
as soon wish for my brother's death as desire to see him united to any
woman, let her beauty and accomplishments be what they might, who had a
mean or frivolous character, such as could consider money as the
greatest good, or dissipation as the prime object of life. I am firmly
persuaded, my dear Almeria, that however you may be dazzled by the first
view of what is called fashionable life, you will soon see things as
they really are, and that you will return to your former tastes and
feelings."
"Oh! I am, I am returned to them!" cried Almeria; "I will write directly
to Lady Stock and to Sir Thomas, to tell them that I have changed my
mind--only prevail upon your father to be my guardian."
"That is out of my power," said Ellen; "and I think that it is much
better you should be as you are, left completely at liberty, and
entirely independent of us. I advise you, Almeria, to persist in your
scheme of spending the ensuing winter in town with Lady Stock--then you
will have an opportunity of comparing your own different feelings, and
of determining what things are essential to your happiness. If you
should find that the triumphs of fashion delight you more than the
pleasures of domestic life; pursue them--your fortune will put it in
your power; you will break no engagements; and you will have no
reproaches to fear from us. On the contrary, if you find that your
happiness depends upon friendship and love, and that the life we
formerly led together is that which you prefer, you will return to
Elmour Grove, to your friend and your lover, and your choice will not be
that of romance, but of reason."
It was with difficulty that Almeria, in her present fit of enthusiasm,
could be brought to listen to sober sense and true friendship. Her
parting from Ellen and Mr. Elmour cost her many tears, and she returned
to her fashionable friend with swollen eyes and a heavy heart. Her
sorrow, however, was soon forgotten in the bustle and novelty of a new
situation. Upon her arrival in London, fresh trains of ideas were
quickly forced upon her mind, which were as dissimilar as possible from
those associated with love, friendship, and Elmour Grove. At Sir Thomas
Stock's, every thing she saw and heard served to remind, or rather to
convince her, of the opulence of the owner of the house. Here every
object was estimated, not for its beauty or elegance, but by its
costliness. Money was the grand criterion, by which the worth of animate
and inanimate objects was alike decided. In this society, the worship of
the golden idol was avowed without shame or mystery; and all who did not
bow the knee to it were considered as hypocrites or fools. Our heroine,
possessed of two hundred thousand pounds, could not fail to have a large
share of incense--every thing she said, or looked, was applauded in Sir
Thomas Stock's family; and she would have found admiration delightful,
if she had not suspected that her fortune alone entitled her to all this
applause. This was rather a mortifying reflection. By degrees, however,
her delicacy on this subject abated; she learned philosophically to
consider her fortune a thing so immediately associated with herself as
to form a part of her personal merit. Upon this principle, she soon
became vain of her wealth, and she was led to overrate the consequence
that riches bestow on their possessor.
In a capital city, such numerous claimants for distinction appear, with
beauty, birth, wit, fashion, or wealth to support their pretensions,
that the vanity of an individual, however clamorous, is immediately
silenced, if not humbled. When Miss Turnbull went into public, she was
surprised by the discovery of her own, nay even of Lady Stock's
insignificance. At York her ladyship was considered as a personage high
as human veneration could look; but in London she was lost in a crowd of
fellow-mortals.
It is, perhaps, from this sense of humiliation, that individuals combine
together, to obtain by their union that importance and self-complacency,
which separately they could never enjoy. Miss Turnbull observed, that a
numerous acquaintance was essential to those who lived much in
public--that the number of bows and curtsies, and the consequence of the
persons by whom they are given or received, is the measure of merit and
happiness. Nothing can be more melancholy than most places of public
amusement, to those who are strangers to the crowds which fill them.
Few people have such strength of mind as to be indifferent to the
opinions of numbers, even considered merely as numbers; hence those
who live in crowds, in fact surrender the power of thinking for
themselves, either in trifles or matters of consequence. Our heroine
had imagined before she came to town, that Lady Stock moved in the
highest circle of fashion; but she soon perceived that many of the
people of rank who visited her ladyship, and who partook of her
sumptuous entertainments, thought they condescended extremely whilst
they paid this homage to wealth.
One night at the Opera, Almeria happened to be seated in the next box to
Lady Bradstone, a proud woman of high family, who considered all whose
genealogy could not vie in antiquity with her own as upstarts that ought
to be kept down. Her ladyship, either not knowing or not caring who was
in the next box to her, began to ridicule an entertainment which had
been given a few days before by Lady Stock. From her entertainment, the
transition was easy to her character, and to that of her whole family.
Young Stock was pronounced to have all the purse-proud self-sufficiency
of a banker, and all the pertness of a clerk; even his bow seemed as if
it came from behind the counter.
Till this moment Almeria had at least permitted, if not encouraged, this
gentleman's assiduities; for she had hitherto seen him only in company
where he had been admired: his attentions, therefore, had been
flattering to her vanity. But things now began to appear in quite a
different light: she saw Mr. Stock in the point of view in which Lady
Bradstone placed him; and felt that she might be degraded, but could not
be elevated, in the ranks of fashion by such an admirer. She began to
wish that she was not so intimately connected with a family which was
ridiculed for want of taste, and whose wealth, as she now suspected, was
their only ticket of admittance into the society of the truly elegant.
In the land of fashion, "Alps on Alps arise;" and no sooner has the
votary reached the summit of one weary ascent than another appears
higher still and more difficult of attainment. Our heroine now became
discontented in that situation, which but a few months before had been
the grand object of her ambition.
In the mean time, as Mr. Stock had not overheard Lady Bradstone's
conversation at the Opera, and as he had a comfortably good opinion of
himself, he was sure that he was making a rapid progress in the lady's
favour. He had of late seldom heard her mention any of her friends at
Elmour Grove; and he was convinced that her romantic attachment to
Frederick must have been conquered by his own superior address. Her
fortune was fully as agreeable to him as to his money-making father: the
only difference between them was, that he loved to squander, and his
father to hoard gold. Extravagance frequently produces premature
avarice--young Mr. Stock calculated Miss Turnbull's fortune, weighed it
against that of every other young lady within the sphere of his
attractions, found the balance in her favour by some thousands, made his
proposal in form, and could not recover his astonishment, when he found
himself in form rejected. Sir Thomas and Lady Stock used all their
influence in his favour, but in vain: they concluded that Almeria's
passion for Frederick Elmour was the cause of this refusal; and they
directed their arguments against the folly of marrying for love. Our
heroine was at this time more in danger of the folly of marrying for
fashion: not that she had fixed her fancy upon any man of fashion in
particular, but she had formed an exalted idea of the whole species--and
she regretted that Frederick was not in that magic circle in which all
her hopes of happiness now centred. She wrote kind letters to Miss
Elmour, but each letter was written with greater difficulty than the
preceding; for she had lost all interest in the occupations which
formerly were so delightful. She and Ellen had now few ideas in common;
and her epistles dwindled into apologies for long silence--promises of
being a better correspondent in future--reasons for breaking these
promises--hopes of pardon, &c. Ellen, however, continued steady in her
belief that her friend would at last prove worthy of her esteem, and of
her brother's love. The rejection of Mr. Stock, which Almeria did not
fail to mention, confirmed this favourable opinion.
When that gentleman was at length with some difficulty convinced that
our heiress had decided against him, his manners and those of his family
changed towards her from the extreme of civility to that of
rudeness--they spoke of her as a coquette and a jilt, and a person who
gave herself very extraordinary airs. She was vexed, and alarmed--and in
her first confusion and distress thought of retreating to her friends at
Elmour Grove. She wrote a folio sheet to Ellen, unlike her late
apologetic epistles, full of the feelings of her heart, and of a warm
invective against fashionable and interested _friends_. After a
narrative of her quarrel with the Stocks, she declared that she would
immediately quit her London acquaintance and return to her best friend.
But the very day after she had despatched this letter she changed her
mind, and formed a new idea of a _best friend_.
One morning she went with Lady Stock to a bookseller's, whose shop
served as a fashionable _lounge_. Her ladyship valued books, like all
other things, in proportion to the money which they cost: she had no
taste for literature, but a great fancy for accumulating the most
expensive publications, which she displayed ostentatiously as part of
the costly furniture of her house. Whilst she was looking over some
literary luxuries, rich in all the elegance of hot-press and vellum
binding, Lady Bradstone and a party of her friends came into the room.
She immediately attracted and engrossed the attention of all present.
Lady Stock turned over the leaves of the fine books, and asked their
prices; but she had the mortification to perceive that she was an object
rather of derision than of admiration to the new comers. None are so
easily put out of countenance by airs, as those who are most apt to play
them off on their inferiors. Lady Stock bit her lips in evident
embarrassment, and the awkwardness of her distress increased the
confidence and triumph of her adversary. She had some time before
provoked Lady Bradstone by giving a concert in opposition to one of
hers, and by engaging, at an enormous expense, a celebrated performer
for _her night_: hostilities had thenceforward been renewed at every
convenient opportunity, by the contending fair ones. Lady Bradstone now
took occasion loudly to lament her extreme poverty; and she put this
question to all her party, whether if they had it in their power they
should prefer having more money than taste, or more taste than money?
They were going to decide _par acclamation_, but her ladyship insisted
upon taking each vote separately, because this prolonged the torments of
her rival, who heard the preference of taste to money reiterated half a
dozen times over, with the most provoking variety of insulting emphasis.
Almeria's sufferings during this scene were far more poignant than those
of the person against whom the ridicule was aimed: not that she pitied
Lady Stock--no; she would have rejoiced to have seen her humbled to the
dust, if she could have escaped all share in her mortification: but as
she appeared as her ladyship's acquaintance, she apprehended that she
might be mistaken for her friend. An opportunity offered of marking the
difference. The bookseller asked Lady Stock if she chose to put her name
down in a list of subscribers to a new work. The book, she saw, was to
be dedicated to Lady Bradstone--and that was sufficient to decide her
against it.
She declared that she never supported such things either by her name or
her money; that for her part she was no politician; that she thought
female patriots were absurd and odious; and that she was glad none of
that description were of her acquaintance.
All this was plainly directed against Lady Bradstone, who was a zealous
patriot: her ladyship retorted, by some reflections equally keen, but
rather more politely expressed, each party addressing their inuendoes to
the bookseller, who afraid to disoblige either the rich or the
fashionable, preserved, as much as it was in the power of his muscles, a
perfectly neutral countenance. At last, in order to relieve himself from
his constraint, he betook himself to count the subscribers, and Miss
Turnbull seized this moment to desire that her name might be added to
the list. Lady Bradstone's eyes were immediately fixed upon her with
complacency--Lady Stock's flashed fire. Regardless of their fire,
Almeria coolly added, "Twelve copies, sir, if you please."
"Twelve copies, Miss Turnbull, at a guinea a-piece! Lord bless me, do
you know what you are about, my dear?" said Lady Stock.
"Perfectly well," replied our heroine; "I think twelve guineas, or
twenty times that sum, would be well bestowed in asserting independence
of sentiment, which I understand is the object of this work."
A whisper from Lady Bradstone to one of the shopmen, of "Who is that
charming woman?" gave our heroine courage to pronounce these words. Lady
Stock in great displeasure walked to her carriage, saying, "You are to
consider what you will do with your twelve copies, Miss Turnbull; for I
am convinced your guardian will never let such a parcel of inflammatory
trash into his house: he admires female patriotism, and _all that sort
of thing_, as little as I do."
The rudeness of this speech did not disconcert Almeria; for she was
fortified by the consciousness that she had gained her point with Lady
Bradstone. This lady piqued herself upon showing her preferences and
aversions with equal enthusiasm and _eclat_. She declared before a large
company at dinner, that notwithstanding Miss Turnbull was _nobody_ by
birth, she had made herself _somebody_ by spirit; and that for her part,
she should, contrary to her general principle, which she confessed was
to keep a strong line of demarcation between nobility and mobility, take
a pride in bringing forward merit even in the shape of a Yorkshire
grazier's daughter.
Pursuant to this gracious declaration, she empowered a common friend to
introduce Miss Turnbull to her, on the first opportunity. When people
really wish to become acquainted with each other, opportunities are
easily and quickly found. The parties met, to their mutual satisfaction,
that very night in the waiting-room of the Opera-house, and conversed
more in five minutes than people in town usually converse in five months
or years, when it is their wish to keep on a merely civil footing. But
this was not the footing on which Miss Turnbull desired to be with Lady
Bradstone; she took the utmost pains to please, and succeeded. She owed
her success chiefly to the dexterous manner in which she manifested her
contempt for her late dear friend Lady Stock. Her having refused an
alliance with the family was much in her favour; her ladyship admired
her spirit, but little suspected that the contemptuous manner in which
she had once been overheard to speak of this _banker's son_ was the real
and immediate cause of his rejection. The phrase--"_only_ Stock the
banker's son"--decided his fate: so much may be done by the mere
emphasis on a single word from fashionable lips! Our heroine managed
with considerable address in bringing her quarrel with one friend to a
crisis at the moment when another was ready to receive her. An
ostensible pretext is never wanting to those who are resolved on war.
The book to which Miss Turnbull had subscribed was the pretext upon this
occasion: nothing could be more indifferent to her than politics; but
Lady Bradstone's party and principles were to be defended at all events.
Sir Thomas Stock protested that he might be hurt essentially in the
opinion of those for whom he had the highest consideration if a young
lady living under his roof, known to be his ward, and probably presumed
to be guided by him, should put her name as subscriber to twelve copies
of a work patronized by Lady Bradstone. "The mere circumstance of its
being dedicated to her ladyship showed what it _must_ be," Sir Thomas
observed; and he made it a point with Miss Turnbull that she should
withdraw her name from the subscription. This Miss Turnbull absolutely
refused. Lady Bradstone was her confidante upon the occasion, and
half-a-dozen notes a day passed between them: at length the affair was
brought to the long wished-for crisis. Lady Bradstone invited Miss
Turnbull to her house, feeling herself, as she said, bound in honour to
_bear her out_ in a dispute of which she had been the original occasion.
In this lady's society Almeria found the style of dress, manners, and
conversation, different from what she had seen at Lady Stock's: she had
without difficulty imitated the affectation of Lady Stock, but there was
an ease in the decided tone of Lady Bradstone which could not be so
easily acquired. Having lived from her infancy in the best company,
there was no heterogeneous mixture in her manners; and the consciousness
of this gave an habitual air of security to her words, looks, and
motions. Lady Stock seemed forced to beg or buy--Lady Bradstone
accustomed to command or levy admiration as her rightful tribute. The
pride of Lady Bradstone was uniformly resolute, and successful; the
insolence of Lady Stock, if it were opposed, became cowardly and
ridiculous. Lady Bradstone seemed to have, on all occasions, an
instinctive sense of what a person of fashion ought to do; Lady Stock,
notwithstanding her bravadoing air, was frequently perplexed, and
anxious, and therefore awkward: she had always recourse to precedents.
"Lady P---- said so, or Lady Q---- did so; Lady G---- wore this, or
Lady H---- was there, and therefore I am sure it is proper."
On the contrary, Lady Bradstone never quoted authorities, but presumed
that she was a precedent for others. The one was eager to follow, the
other determined to lead, the fashion.
Our heroine, who was by no means deficient in penetration, and whose
whole attention was now given to the study of externals, quickly
perceived these shades of difference between her late and her present
friend. She remarked, in particular, that she found herself much more
at ease in Lady Bradstone's society. Her ladyship's pride was not so
offensive as Lady Stock's vanity: secure of her own superiority, Lady
Bradstone did not want to measure herself every instant with inferiors.
She treated Almeria as her equal in every respect; and in setting her
right in points of fashion never seemed to triumph, but to consider her
own knowledge as a necessary consequence of the life she had led from
her infancy. With a sort of proud generosity, she always considered
those whom she honoured with her friendship as thenceforward entitled
to all the advantages of her own situation, and to all the respect due
to a part of herself. She now always used the word _we_, with peculiar
emphasis, in speaking of Miss Turnbull and herself. This was a signal
perfectly well understood by her acquaintance. Almeria was received
every where with the most distinguished attention; and she was
delighted, and absolutely intoxicated, with her sudden rise in the
world of fashion. She found that her former acquaintance at Lady
Stock's were extremely ambitious of claiming an intimacy; but this
could not be done. Miss Turnbull had now acquired, by practice, the
power of looking at people without seeming to see them, and of
forgetting those with whom she was perfectly well acquainted. Her
opinion of her own consequence was much raised by the court that was
paid to her by several young men of fashion, who thought it expedient
to marry two hundred thousand pounds.
How quickly ambition extends her views! Our heroine's highest object had
lately been to form an alliance with a man of fashion; she had now three
fashionable admirers in her train, but though she was flattered by their
attention, she had not the least inclination to decide in favour of any
of these candidates. The only young man of her present acquaintance who
seemed to be out of the reach of her power was Lord Bradstone; and upon
the conquest of his heart, or rather his pride, her fancy was fixed. He
had all his mother's family pride, and he had been taught by her to
expect an alliance with a daughter of one of the first noble families in
England. The possibility of his marrying a grazier's daughter had never
entered into his or Lady Bradstone's thoughts: they saw, indeed, every
day, examples, among the first nobility, of such matches; but they saw
them with contempt. Almeria knew this, and yet she did not despair of
success: nor was she wrong in her calculations. Lord Bradstone was fond
of high play--his taste for gaming soon reduced him to distress--his
guardian was enraged, and absolutely refused to pay his lordship's
debts. What was to be done?--He must extricate himself from his
difficulties by marrying some rich heiress. Miss Turnbull was the
heiress nearest at hand. Lord Bradstone's pride was compelled to yield
to his interest, and he resolved to pay his addresses to the Yorkshire
grazier's daughter: but he knew that his mother would be indignant at
this idea; and he therefore determined to proceed cautiously, and to
assure himself of the young lady's approbation before he should brave
his mother's anger.
The winter was now passed, and her ladyship invited Miss Turnbull to
accompany her to Cheltenham;--her son was of the party. Our heroine
plainly understood his intentions, and her friendship for Lady Bradstone
did not prevent her from favouring his views: neither was she deterred
by her knowledge of his lordship's taste for play, so ardent was her
desire for a coronet. The recollection of Frederick Elmour sometimes
crossed her imagination, and struck her heart; but the pang was soon
over, and she settled her conscience by the reflection, that she was
not, in the least degree, bound in honour to him--he had set her
entirely at liberty, and could not complain of her conduct. As to
Ellen--every day she determined to write to her, and every day she put
it off till to-morrow. At last she was saved the trouble of making and
breaking any more resolutions: for one evening, as she was walking with
Lady Bradstone and her noble admirer, in the public walk, she met Miss
Elmour and her brother.
She accosted Ellen with great eagerness; but it was plain to her
friend's discerning eyes that her joy was affected. After repeating
several times that she was quite delighted at this unexpected meeting,
she ran on with a number of commonplace questions, commencing and
concluding with, "When did you come?--How long do you stay?--Where do
you lodge?"
"We have been here about a fortnight, and I believe we shall stay about
a month longer."
"Indeed!--A month!--So long!--How fortunate!--But where are you?"
"We lodge a little out of the town, on the road to Cirencester."
"How unfortunate!--We are at such a shocking distance!--I'm with Lady
Bradstone--a most charming woman!--Whom are you with?"
"With my poor father," said Ellen; "he has been very ill lately, and we
came here on his account."
"Ill!--Old Mr. Elmour!--I'm extremely concerned--but whom have you to
attend him?--you should send to town for Dr. Grant--do you know he is
the only man now?--the only man Lady Bradstone and I have any dependence
on--if I were dying, he is the man I should send for. Do have him for
Mr. Elmour, my dear--and don't be alarmed, above all things--you know
it's so natural, at your father's age, that he should not be as well as
he has been--but I distress you--and detain you."
Our heroine, after running off these unmeaning sentences, passed on,
being ashamed to walk with Ellen in public, because Lady Bradstone had
whispered, "_Who is she?_"--Not to be known in the world of fashion is
an unpardonable crime, for which no merit can atone. Three days elapsed
before Miss Turnbull went to see her friends, notwithstanding her
extreme concern for poor Mr. Elmour. Her excuse to her conscience was,
that Lady Bradstone's carriage could not sooner be spared. People in a
certain rank of life are, or make themselves, slaves to horses and
carriages; with every apparent convenience and luxury, they are
frequently more dependent than their tradesmen or their servants. There
was a time when Almeria would not have been restrained by these
imaginary _impossibilities_ from showing kindness to her friends; but
that time was now completely past. She was, at present, anxious to avoid
having any private conversation with Ellen, because she was ashamed to
avow her change of views and sentiments. In the short morning visit
which she paid her, Almeria talked of public places, of public
characters, of dress and equipages, &c. She inquired, indeed, with a
modish air of infinite sensibility, for poor Mr. Elmour; and when she
heard that he was confined to his bed, she regretted most excessively
that she could not see him; but a few seconds afterwards, with a
suitable change of voice and countenance, she made an easy transition to
the praise of a new dress of Lady Bradstone's invention. Frederick
Elmour came into the room in the midst of the eulogium on her ladyship's
taste--she was embarrassed for a moment; but quickly recovering the tone
of a fine lady, she spoke to him as if he had never been any thing to
her but a common acquaintance. The dignity and firmness of his manner
provoked her pride; she wished to coquet with him--she tried to excite
his jealousy by talking of Lord Bradstone: but vain were all her airs
and inuendoes; they could not extort from him even a sigh. She was
somewhat consoled, however, by observing in his sister's countenance the
expression, as she thought, of extreme mortification.
A few days after this visit, Miss Turnbull received the following note
from Miss Elmour:
"MY DEAR ALMERIA,
"If you still wish that I should treat you as a friend, show me that you
do, and you will find my affection unaltered. If, on the contrary, you
have decided to pursue a mode of life, or to form connexions which make
you ashamed to own any one for a friend who is not a fine lady, let our
intimacy be dissolved for ever--it could only be a source of mutual
pain. My father is better to-day, and wishes to see you. Will you spend
this evening with him and with Your affectionate ELLEN ELMOUR?"
It happened that the very day Miss Turnbull received this note, Lady
Bradstone was to have a concert, and Almeria knew that her ladyship
would be offended if she were to spend the evening with the Elmours: it
was, as she said to herself, _impossible_, therefore, to accept of
Ellen's invitation. She called upon her in the course of the morning, to
make an apology. She found Ellen beside her father, who was seated in
his arm-chair: he looked extremely pale and weak: she was at first
shocked at the change she saw in her old friend, and she could not utter
the premeditated apology. Ellen took it for granted that she was come,
in consequence of her note, to spend the day with her, and she embraced
her with affectionate joy. Her whole countenance changed when our
heroine began at last to talk of Lady Bradstone and the concert--Ellen
burst into tears.
"My dear child," said Mr. Elmour, putting his hand upon his daughter's,
which rested upon the arm of his chair, "I did not expect this weakness
from you."
Miss Turnbull, impatient to shorten a scene which she had neither
strength of mind to endure nor to prevent, rose to take leave.
"My dear Ellen," said she, in an irresolute tone, "my dearest creature,
you must not distress yourself in this way--I must have you keep up your
spirits. You confine yourself too much, indeed you do; and you see you
are not equal to it. Your father will be better, and he will persuade
you to leave him for an hour or two, I am sure, and we must have you
amongst us; and I must introduce you to Lady Bradstone--she's a charming
woman, I assure you--you would like her of all things, if you knew her.
Come--don't let me see you in this way. Really, my dear Ellen, this is
so unlike you--I can assure you that, whatever you may think, I love you
as well as ever I did, and never shall forget my obligations to _all_
your family; but, you know, a person who lives in the world, as I do,
must make such terrible sacrifices of their time--one can't do as one
pleases--one's an absolute slave. So you must forgive me, dear Ellen,
for bidding you farewell for the present."
Ellen hastily wiped away her tears, and turning to Almeria with an air
of dignity, held out her hand to her, and said, "Farewell for ever,
Almeria!--May you never feel the want of a sincere and affectionate
friend!--May the triumphs of fashion make you amends for all you
sacrifice to obtain them!"
Miss Turnbull was abashed and agitated--she hurried out of the room to
conceal her confusion, stepped into a carriage with a coronet, drove
away, and endeavoured to forget all that had passed. The concert in
the evening recalled her usual train of ideas, and she persuaded
herself that she had done all, and more than was necessary, in
offering to introduce Ellen to Lady Bradstone. "How could she neglect
such an offer?"
A few days after the concert, Almeria had the pleasure of being
introduced to Lady Bradstone's four daughters--Lady Gabriella, Lady
Agnes, Lady Bab, and Lady Kitty. Of the existence of these young ladies
Almeria had scarcely heard--they had been educated at a fashionable
boarding-school; and their mother was now under the disagreeable
necessity of bringing them home to live with her, because the eldest was
past seventeen.
Lady Gabriella was a beauty, and determined to be a Grace--but which of
the three Graces, she had not yet decided.
Lady Agnes was plain, and resolved to be a wit.
Lady Bab and Lady Kitty were charming hoydens, with all the _modern_
simplicity of fourteen or fifteen in their manners. Lady Bab had a fine
long neck, which was always in motion--Lady Kitty had white teeth, and
was always laughing;--but it is impossible to characterize them, for
they differed in nothing from a thousand other young ladies.
These four sisters agreed in but one point--in considering their mother
as their common enemy. Taking it for granted that Miss Turnbull was her
friend, she was looked upon by them as being naturally entitled to a
share of their distrust and enmity. They found a variety of causes of
complaint against our heroine; and if they had been at any loss, their
respective waiting-maids would have furnished them with inexhaustible
causes of quarrel.
Lady Bradstone could not bear to go with more than four in a
coach.--"Why was Miss Turnbull always to have a front seat in the
coach, and two of the young ladies to be always left at home on her
account?"--"How could Lady Bradstone make such a favourite of a
grazier's daughter, and prefer her to her own children as a
companion?" &c.
The young ladies never discouraged their attendants from saying all the
ill-natured things that they could devise of Miss Turnbull, and they
invented a variety of methods of tormenting her. Lady Gabriella found
out that Almeria was horridly ugly and awkward; Lady Agnes _quizzed_ her
perpetually; and the Ladies Bab and Kitty played upon her innumerable
practical jokes. She was astonished to find in high life a degree of
vulgarity of which her country companions would have been ashamed: but
all such things in high life go under the general term _dashing_. These
young ladies were _dashers_. Alas! perhaps foreigners and future
generations may not know the meaning of the term!
Our heroine's temper was not proof against the trials to which it was
hourly exposed: perhaps the consciousness that she was not born to the
situation in which she now moved, joined to her extreme anxiety to be
thought genteel and fashionable, rendered her peculiarly irritable when
her person and manners were attacked by ladies of quality. She
endeavoured to conciliate her young enemies by every means in her power,
and at length she found a method of pleasing them. They were
immoderately fond of baubles, and they had not money enough to gratify
this taste. Miss Turnbull at first, with great timidity, begged Lady
Gabriella's acceptance of a ring, which seemed particularly to catch her
fancy: the facility with which the ring was accepted, and the favourable
change it produced, as if by magic, in her ladyship's manners towards
our heroine, encouraged her to try similar experiments upon the other
sisters. She spared not ear-rings, crosses, brooches, pins, and
necklaces; and the young ladies in return began to show her all the
friendship which can be purchased by such presents--or by any presents.
Even whilst she rejoiced at the change in their behaviour, she could not
avoid despising them for the cause to which she knew it must be
attributed; nor did she long enjoy even the temporary calm procured by
these peace-offerings; for the very same things which propitiated the
daughters offended the mother. Lady Bradstone one morning insisted upon
Lady Gabriella's returning a necklace, which she had received from
Almeria; and her ladyship informed Miss Turnbull, at the same time, with
an air of supreme haughtiness, that "she could not possibly permit _her_
daughters to accept such valuable presents from any but their own
relations; that if the Lady Bradstones did not know what became them, it
was her duty to teach them propriety."
It was rather late in life to begin to teach, even if they had been
inclined to learn. They resented her last lesson, or rather her last act
of authority, with acrimony proportioned to the value of the object; and
Miss Turnbull was compelled to hear their complaints. Lady Gabriella
said, she was convinced that her mother's only reason for making her
return the necklace was because she had not one quite so handsome. Lady
Agnes, between whom and her mamma there was pending a dispute about a
pair of diamond ear-rings, left by her grandmother, observed, that her
mother might, if she pleased, call _jealousy, propriety_; but that she
must not be surprised if other people used the old vocabulary; that her
mamma's pride and vanity were always at war; for that though she was
proud enough to see her daughters _show well_ in public, yet she
required to have it said that she looked younger than any of them, and
that she was infinitely better dressed.
Lady Bab and Lady Kitty did not fail in this favourable moment of
general discontent to bring forward their list of grievances; and in the
discussion of their rights and wrongs they continually appealed to our
heroine, crowding round her whilst she stood silent and embarrassed.
Ashamed of them and of herself, she compared the Lady Bradstones with
Ellen--she compared the sisters-in-law she was soon to have with the
friend she had forsaken. The young ladies mistook the expression of
melancholy in Almeria's countenance at this instant, for sympathy in
their sorrows; and her silence, for acquiescence in the justice of their
complaints. They were reiterating their opinions with something like
plebeian loudness of voice, when their mother entered the room. The ease
with which her daughters changed their countenances and the subject of
conversation, when she entered, might have prevented all suspicion but
for the blushes of Almeria, who, though of all the party she was the
least guilty, looked by far the most abashed. The necklace which hung
from her hand, and on which in the midst of her embarrassment her eyes
involuntarily fell, seemed to Lady Bradstone proof positive against her.
Her ladyship recollected certain words she had heard as she opened the
door, and now applied them without hesitation to herself. Politeness
restrained the expression of her anger towards Miss Turnbull, but it
burst furiously forth upon her daughters; and our heroine was now as
much alarmed by the violence of her future mother-in-law as she had been
disgusted by the meanness of her _intended_ sisters. From this day
forward, Lady Bradstone's manner changed towards Almeria, who could
plainly perceive, by her altered eye, that she had lost her confidence,
and that her ladyship considered her as one who was playing a double
part, and fomenting dissensions in her family. She thought herself
bound, in honour to the daughters, not to make any explanation that
could throw the blame upon them; and she bore in painful silence the
many oblique reproaches, reflections upon ingratitude, dissimulation,
and treachery, which she knew were aimed at her. The consciousness that
she was treating Lady Bradstone with insincerity, in encouraging the
addresses of her son, increased Miss Turnbull's embarrassment; she
repented having for a moment encouraged his clandestine attachment; and
she now urged him in the strongest manner to impart his intentions to
his mother. He assured her that she should be obeyed; but his obedience
was put off from day to day; and, in the mean time, the more Almeria saw
of his family, the more her desire to be connected with them diminished.
The affair of the necklace was continually renewed, in some shape or
other, and a perpetual succession of petty disputes occurred, in which
both parties were in the wrong, and each openly or secretly blamed her
for not taking their part. Her mind was so much harassed, that all her
natural cheerfulness forsook her; and the being obliged to assume
spirits in company, and among people who were not worth the toil of
pleasing, became every hour more irksome. The transition from these
domestic miseries to public dissipation and gaieties made her still more
melancholy.
When she calmly examined her own heart, she perceived that she felt
little or no affection for Lord Bradstone, though she had been flattered
by his attentions, when the assiduity of a man of rank and fashion was
new to her; but now the joys of being a countess began to fade in her
imagination. She hesitated--she had not strength of mind sufficient to
decide--she was afraid to proceed; yet she had not courage to retract.
Ellen's parting words recurred to her mind--"May you never feel the want
of a sincere and affectionate friend! May the triumphs of fashion make
you amends for all you sacrifice to obtain them!"--"Alas!" thought she,
"Ellen foresaw that I should soon be disgusted with this joyless,
heartless intercourse; but how can I recede? how can I disengage myself
from this Lord Bradstone, now that I have encouraged his addresses?--
Fool that I have been!--Oh! if I could now be advised by that best of
friends, who used to assist me in all my difficulties!--But she
despises, she has renounced me--she has bid me farewell for ever!"
Notwithstanding this "farewell for ever," there was still at the bottom
of Almeria's heart, even whilst she bewailed herself in this manner, a
secret hope that Ellen's esteem and friendship might be recovered, and
she resolved to make the trial. She was eager to put this idea into
execution the moment it occurred to her; and after apologizing to the
Lady Bradstones for not, as usual, accompanying them in their morning
ride, she set out to walk to Miss Elmour's lodgings. It was a hot
day--she walked fast from the hurry and impatience of her mind. The
servant who attended her knocked twice at Mr. Elmour's door before any
one answered; at last the door was opened by a maid-servant, with a
broom in her hand.
"Is Miss Elmour at home?"
"No, sir, she left Cheltenham this morning betimes, and we be getting
the house ready for other lodgers."
Almeria was very much disappointed--she looked flushed and fatigued; and
the maid said, "Ma'am, if you'll be pleased to rest a while, you're
welcome, I'm sure--and the parlour's cleaned out--be pleased to sit
down, ma'am."--Almeria followed, for she was really tired, and glad to
accept the good-natured offer. She was shown into the same parlour where
she had but a few weeks before taken leave of Ellen. The maid rolled
forward the great arm-chair, in which old Mr. Elmour had been seated;
and as she moved it, a gold-headed cane fell to the ground.
Almeria's eyes turned upon it directly as it fell; for it was an old
friend of hers: many a time she had played with it when she was a child,
and for many years she had been accustomed to see it in the hand of a
man whom she loved and respected. It brought many pleasing and some
painful associations to her mind--for she reflected how ill she had
behaved to the owner of it the last time she saw him.
"Ay, ma'am," said the maid, "it is the poor old gentleman's cane, sure
enough--it has never been stirred from here, nor his hat and gloves,
see, since the day he died."
"Died!--Good Heavens!--Is Mr. Elmour dead?"
"Yes, sure--he died last Tuesday, and was buried yesterday. You'd better
drink some of this water, ma'am," said the girl, filling a glass that
stood on the table. "Why! dear heart! I would not have mentioned it so
sudden in this way, but I thought it could no way hurt you. Why, it
never came into my head you could be a friend of the family's, nor more,
may be, at the utmost, than an acquaintance, as you never used to call
much during his illness."
This was the most cutting reproach, and the innocence with which it was
uttered made it still more severe. Almeria burst into tears; and the
poor girl, not knowing what to say next, and sorry for all she had said,
took up the cane, which had fallen from Almeria's hands, and applied
herself to brightening the gold head with great diligence. At this
instant there was a double knock at the house-door.
"It's only the young gentleman, ma'am," said the maid, as she went
towards the door.
"What young gentleman?" said Almeria, rising from her seat.
"Young Mr. Elmour, ma'am: he did not go away with his sister, but stayed
to settle some matters. Oh, they have let him in!"
The maid stood with the parlour-door half open in her hand, not being
able to decide in her own fancy whether the lady wished that he should
come into the room or stay out; and before either she, or perhaps
Almeria, had decided this point, it was settled for them by his walking
in. Almeria was standing so as to be hid by the door; and he was so
intent upon his own thoughts, that, without perceiving there was any
body in the room, he walked straight forward to the table, took up his
father's hat and gloves, and gave a deep sigh. He heard his sigh
echoed--looked up, and started at the sight of Almeria, but immediately
assumed an air of distant and cold respect. He was in deep mourning, and
looked pale, as if he had suffered much. Almeria endeavoured to speak;
but could get out only a few words, expressive of _the shock and
astonishment_ she had just felt.
"Undoubtedly, madam, you must have been shocked," replied Frederick, in
a calm voice; "but you could not have reason to be much astonished. My
father's life had been despaired of some time--you must have seen how
much he was changed when you were here a few weeks ago." Almeria could
make no reply; the tears, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them,
rolled down her cheeks: the cold, and almost severe, manner, in which
Frederick spoke, and the consciousness that she deserved it, struck her
to the heart. He followed her, as she abruptly quitted the room, and in
a tone of more kindness, but with the same distant manner, begged to
have the honour of attending her home. She bowed her head, to give that
assent which her voice could not at this instant utter; and she was
involuntarily going to put her arm within his; but, as he did not seem
to perceive this motion, she desisted, coloured violently, adjusted the
drapery of her gown to give employment to the neglected hand, then
walked on with precipitation. Her foot slipped as she was crossing the
street; Frederick offered his arm--she could not guess, from the way in
which it was presented, whether her former attempt had been perceived or
not. This trifle appeared to her a point of the utmost importance; for
by this she thought she could decide whether his feelings were really as
cold towards her as they appeared, whether he felt love and anger, or
contempt and indifference. Whilst she was endeavouring in vain to form
her opinion, all the time she leant upon his arm, and walked on in
silence, a carriage passed them; Frederick bowed, and his countenance
was suddenly illuminated. Almeria turned eagerly to see the cause of the
change, and as the carriage drove on she caught a glimpse of a beautiful
young lady. A spasm of jealousy seized her heart--she withdrew her arm
from Frederick's. The abruptness of the action did not create any
emotion in him--his thoughts were absent. In a few minutes he slackened
his pace, and turned from the road towards a path across the fields,
asking if Miss Turnbull had any objection to going that way to Lady
Bradstone's instead of along the dusty road. She made no objection--she
thought she perceived that Frederick was preparing to say something of
importance to her, and her heart beat violently.
"Miss Turnbull will not, I hope, think what I am going to say
impertinent; she may be assured that it proceeds from no motive but the
desire to prevent the future unhappiness of one who once honoured my
family with her friendship."
"You are too good--I do not deserve that you should be interested in
my happiness or unhappiness--I cannot think you impertinent--pray
speak freely."
"And quickly," she would have added, if she dared. Without abating any
of his reserve from this encouragement, he proceeded precisely in the
same tone as before, and with the same steady composure.
"An accidental acquaintance with a friend of my Lord Bradstone's, has
put me in possession of what, perhaps, you wish to be a secret, madam,
and what I shall inviolably keep as such."
"I cannot pretend to be ignorant of what you allude to," said Almeria;
"but it is more than probable that you may not have heard the exact
state of the business; indeed it is impossible that you should, because
no one but myself could fully explain my sentiments. In fact they were
undecided; I was this very morning going to consult your sister upon
that subject."
"You will not suppose that I am going to intrude my counsels upon you,
Miss Turnbull; nothing can be farther from my intention: I am merely
going to mention a fact to you, of which I apprehend you are ignorant,
and of which, as you are circumstanced, no one in your present society,
perhaps no one in the world but myself, would choose to apprize you.
Forgive me, madam, if I try your patience by this preface: I am very
desirous not to wound your feelings more than is necessary."
"Perhaps," said Almeria, with a doubtful smile, "perhaps you are under a
mistake, and imagine my feelings to be much more interested than they
really are. If you have any thing to communicate to Lord Bradstone's
disadvantage, you may mention it to me without hesitation, and without
fear of injuring my happiness or his; for, to put you at ease at once, I
am come to a determination positively to decline his lordship's
addresses."
"This assurance certainly puts me at ease at once," said Frederick. But
Almeria observed that he neither expressed by his voice nor countenance
any of that joy which she had hoped to inspire by the assurance: on the
contrary, he heard it as a determination in which he was personally
unconcerned, and in which pure benevolence alone could give him an
interest. "This relieves me," continued he, "from all necessity of
explaining myself further."
"Nay," said Almeria, "but I must beg you will explain yourself. You do
not know but it may be necessary for me to have your antidote ready in
case of a relapse."
No change, at least none that betrayed the anxiety of a lover, was
visible in Frederick's countenance at this hint of a relapse; but he
gravely answered, that, when so urged, he could not forbear to tell her
the exact truth, that Lord Bradstone was a ruined man--ruined by
gaming--and that he had been so indelicate as to declare to his
_friend_, that his sole object in marrying was money. Our heroine's
pride was severely hurt by the last part of this information; but even
that did not wound her so keenly as the manner in which Frederick
behaved. She saw that he had no remains of affection for her lurking in
his heart--she saw that he now acted merely as he declared, from a
desire to save from misery one who had formerly honoured his family with
her friendship. Stiff, cold words--she endeavoured to talk upon
indifferent subjects, but could not--she was somewhat relieved when they
reached Lady Bradstone's door, and when Frederick left her. The moment
he was gone, however, she ran up stairs to her own apartment, and looked
eagerly out of her window to catch the last glimpse of him. Such is the
strange caprice of the human heart, that a lover appears the most
valuable at the moment he is lost. Our heroine had felt all her
affection for Frederick revive with more than its former force within
this last hour; and she thought she now loved with a degree of passion
of which she had never before found herself capable. Hope is perhaps
inseparable from the existence of the passion of love. She passed
alternately from despair to the most flattering delusions: she fancied
that Frederick's coldness was affected--that he was acting only from
honour--that he wished to leave her at liberty--and that as soon as he
knew she was actually disengaged from Lord Bradstone, he would fly to
her with all his former eagerness. This notion having once taken
possession of her mind, she was impatient in the extreme to settle her
affairs with Lord Bradstone. He was not at home--he did not come in
till late in the evening. It happened, that the next day Almeria was to
be of age; and Lord Bradstone, when he met her in the evening, reminded
her of her promise not "to prolong the torments of suspense beyond that
period." She asked whether he had, in compliance with her request,
communicated the affair to Lady Bradstone? No; but he would as soon as
he had reasonable grounds of hope. Miss Turnbull rejoiced that he had
disobeyed her injunctions--she said that Lady Bradstone might now be for
ever spared hearing what would have inevitably excited her indignation.
His lordship stared, and could not comprehend our heroine's present
meaning. She soon made it intelligible. We forbear to relate all that
was said upon the occasion: as it was a disappointment of the purse and
not of the heart, his lordship was of course obliged to make a
proportional quantity of professions of eternal sorrow and
disinterestedness. Almeria, partly to save her own pride the
mortification of the repetition, forbore to allude to the confidential
speech in which he had explained to _a friend_ his motives for marrying;
she hoped that he would soon console himself with some richer heiress,
and she rejoiced to be disencumbered of him, and even of his coronet;
for in this moment coronets seemed to her but paltry things--so much
does the appearance of objects vary according to the medium through
which they are viewed!
Better satisfied with herself after this refusal of the earl, and in
better spirits than she had been for some months, she flattered
herself with the hopes that Frederick would call upon her again before
he left Cheltenham; he would then know that Lord Bradstone was no
longer her lover.
She fell asleep full of these imaginations--dreamed of Frederick and
Elmour Grove--but this was only a dream. The next day--and the next--and
the next--passed without her seeing or hearing any thing of Frederick;
and the fourth day, as she rode by the house where the Elmours had
lodged, she saw put up in the parlour window an advertisement of
"_Lodgings to be let_." She was now convinced that Frederick had left
Cheltenham--left it without thinking of her or of Lord Bradstone. The
young Lady Bradstones observed that she scarcely spoke a word during the
remainder of her morning's ride. At night she was attacked with a
feverish complaint: the image of the beautiful person whom she had seen
in the coach that passed while she was walking with Frederick, was now
continually before her eyes. She had made all the inquiries she could,
to find out who that young lady might be; but this point could not be
ascertained, because, though she described the lady accurately, she was
not equally exact about the description of the carriage. The arms and
livery had totally escaped her observation. The different conjectures
that had been made by the various people to whom she had applied, and
the voices in which their answers were given, ran in her head all this
feverish night.
"Perhaps it was Lady Susanna Quin--very likely it was Lady Mary
Lowther--very possibly Miss Grant; you know she goes about with old Mrs.
Grant in a yellow coach--but there are so many yellow coaches--the arms
or the livery would settle the point at once." These words, _the arms and
the livery would settle the point at once,_ she repeated to herself
perpetually, though without annexing any ideas to the words. In short,
she was very feverish all night; and in the morning, though she
endeavoured to rise, she was obliged to lie down again. She was confined
to her bed for about a week: Lady Bradstone sent for the best
physicians; and the young ladies, in the intervals of dressing and going
out, whenever they could remember it, came into Miss Turnbull's room to
"hope she found herself better." It was obvious to her that no one
person in the house cared a straw about her, and she was oppressed with
the sense of being an encumbrance to the whole family. Whilst she was
alone she formed many projects for her future life, which she resolved
to execute as soon as she should recover. She determined immediately to
go down to her own house in the country, and to write to Ellen a
recantation of all her fine lady errors. She composed, whilst she lay on
her feverish pillow, twenty letters to her former friend, each of them
more eloquent and magnanimous than the other: but in proportion as her
fever left her, the activity of her imagination abated, and with it her
eloquence and magnanimity. Her mind, naturally weak, and now enfeebled
by disease, became quite passive, and received and yielded to the
impressions made by external circumstances. New trains of ideas,
perfectly different from those which had occupied her mind during her
fever, and in the days preceding her illness, were excited during her
convalescence. She lay listening to, or rather hearing, the conversation
of the young Lady Bradstones. They used to come into her room at night,
and stay for some time whilst they had their hair curled, and talked
over the events of the day--whom they had met--what dresses they had
worn--what matches were on the tapis, &c. They happened one night to
amuse themselves with reading an old newspaper, in which they came to an
account of a splendid masquerade, which had been given the preceding
winter in London by a rich heiress.
"Lord! what charming entertainments Miss Turnbull might give if she
pleased. Why, do you know, she is richer than this woman," whispered
Lady Bab; "and she is of age now, you know. If I were she, I'm sure I'd
have a house of my own, and the finest I could get in London. Now such a
house as my aunt Pierrepoint's--and servants--and carriages--and I would
make myself of some consequence."
This speech was not lost upon our heroine; and the whisper in which it
was spoken increased its effect. The next day, as Lady Bab was sitting
at the foot of Almeria's bed, she asked for a description of "my aunt
Pierrepoint's house." It was given to her _con amore_, and a character
of "my aunt Pierrepoint" was added gratis. "She is the most charming
amiable woman in the world--quite a different sort of person from mamma.
She has lived all her life about court, and she is connected with all
the great people, and a prodigious favourite at court--and she is of
such consequence!--You cannot imagine of what consequence she is!"
Lady Gabriella then continued the conversation, by telling Miss Turnbull
a great secret, that her aunt Pierrepoint and her mother were not on the
best terms in the world: "for mamma's so violent, you know, about
politics, and quite on a contrary side to my aunt. Mamma never goes to
court; and, between you and me, they say she would not be received. Now
that is a shocking thing for us; but the most provoking part of the
business is, that mamma won't let my aunt Pierrepoint present us. Why,
when she cannot or will not go to the drawing-room herself, what could
be more proper, you know, than to let us be presented by Lady
Pierrepoint?--Lady Pierrepoint, you know, who is such a prodigious
favourite, and knows every thing in the world that's proper at court,
and every where: it really is monstrous of mamma! Now if you were in our
places, should not you be quite provoked? By-the-bye, you never were
presented at court yourself, were you?"
"Never," said Almeria, with a sudden feeling of mortification.
"No, you could not--of course you could not, living with mamma as you
do; for I am sure she would quarrel with an angel for just only talking
of going to court. Lord! if I was as rich as you, what beautiful
birthday dresses I would have!"
These and similar conversations wrought powerfully upon the weak mind of
our poor heroine. She rose from her bed after her illness wondering what
had become of her passion for Frederick Elmour: certainly she was now
able to console herself for his loss, by the hopes of being presented at
court, and of being dressed with uncommon splendour. She was surprised
at this change in her own mind; but she justified it to herself by the
reflection, that it would show an unbecoming want of spirit to retain
any remains of regard for one who had treated her with so much coldness
and indifference, and who in all probability was attached to another
woman. Pride and resentment succeeded to tenderness; and she resolved to
show Frederick and Ellen that she could be happy her own way. It is
remarkable that her friendship for the sister always increased or
decreased with her love for her brother. Ambition, as it has often been
observed, is a passion that frequently succeeds to love, though love
seldom follows ambition. Almeria, who had now recovered her strength,
was one morning sitting in her own room, meditating arrangements for the
next winter's campaign, when she was roused by the voices of Lady Bab
and Lady Kitty at her room door.
"Miss Turnbull! Miss Turnbull! come! come!--Here's the king and queen
and all the royal family, and my aunt Pierrepoint--come quick to our
dressing-room windows, or they will be out of sight."
The fair hoydens seized her between them, and dragged her away.
"Mamma says it's horribly vulgar to run to the windows, but never mind
that. There's my aunt Pierrepoint's coach--is not it handsome?--Oh!
everything about her is so handsome!--you know she has lived all her
life at court."
The eulogiums of these young ladies, and the sight of Lady Pierrepoint's
entry in to Cheltenham in the wake of royalty, and the huzzas of the
mob, and the curiosity of all ranks who crowded the public walks in the
evening, to see the illustrious guest, contributed to raise our
heroine's enthusiasm. She was rather surprised afterwards to observe
that Lady Pierrepoint passed her sister and nieces, on the public walk,
without taking the slightest notice of them; her head was turned indeed
quite another way when she passed, and she was in smiling conversation
with one of her own party.
Lady Gabriella whispered, "My aunt Pierrepoint cannot _know_ us now,
because we are with mamma."
Miss Turnbull now, for the first time, saw Lady Bradstone in a situation
in which she was neglected; this served to accelerate the decline and
fall of her ladyship's power over her mind. She began to consider her
not as a person by whom she had been brought into notice in the circles
of fashion, but as one by whom she was prevented from rising to a higher
orbit. Lady Bradstone went to see her sister the day after her arrival,
but she was _not at home_. Some days afterwards Lady Pierrepoint
returned her visit: she came in a sedan chair, because she did not wish
that her carriage should be seen standing at Lady Bradstone's door. It
was incumbent upon her to take every possible precaution to prevent the
suspicion of her being biassed by sisterly affection; her sister and she
were unfortunately of such different opinions in politics, and her
sister's politics were so much disapproved of, where Lady Pierrepoint
most wished for approbation, that she could not, consistently with her
principles or interest, countenance them, by appearing in public with
one so obnoxious.
Miss Turn bull observed, with the most minute attention, every word and
gesture of Lady Pierrepoint. At first view, her ladyship appeared all
smiling ease and affability; but in all her motions, even in those of
her face, there was something that resembled a puppet--her very smiles,
and the turns of her eyes, seemed to be governed by unseen wires. Upon
still closer observation, however, there was reason to suspect that this
puppet might be regulated by a mind within, of some sort or other; for
it could not only answer questions by a voice of its own, and apparently
without being prompted, but moreover it seemed to hesitate, and to take
time for thought, before it hazarded any reply. Lady Pierrepoint spoke
always as if she thought her words would be repeated, and must _lead to
consequences_; and there was an air of vast circumspection and mystery
about her, which appeared sublime or ridiculous according to the light
in which it was considered. To our heroine it appeared sublime. Her
ladyship's conversation, if a set of unmeaning phrases be deserving of
that name, at length turned upon the concern she felt that it had not
been in her power to procure an increase of pension for a certain Mrs.
Vickars. "Such a respectable character!--the widow of a distant relation
of the Pierrepoints." There was no probability, after all the interest
and influence she had used, she said, that Mrs. Vickars could ever be
gratified in the line she had attempted; that therefore it was her
ladyship's advice to her to look out for some situation of an eligible
description, which might relieve her from the distressing apprehension
of appearing burdensome or importunate.
As well as her ladyship's meaning could be made out, cleared from the
superfluity of words with which it was covered, she wished to get rid of
this poor widow, and to fasten her as an humble companion upon any body
who would be troubled with _such a respectable character!_ Miss Turnbull
foresaw the possibility of obliging her ladyship by means of Mrs.
Vickars: for as she proposed to purchase a house in town, it would be
convenient to her to have some companion; and this lady, who was of a
certain age, and who had always lived in the best company, would be well
suited to serve as her chaperon. To do our heroine justice, considering
that she was unpractised in manoeuvring with court ladies, she conducted
her scheme with a degree of address worthy of her object. Through the
medium of Lady Bab and Lady Gabriella, she opened a correspondence with
Lady Pierrepoint. Mrs. Vickars was introduced to Miss Turnbull--liked
her prodigiously; and Lady Pierrepoint was most happy in the prospect of
her relation's being so eligibly situated. In proportion as Miss
Turnbull advanced in the good graces of Lady Pierrepoint, she receded
from Lady Bradstone. This lady's indignation, which had been excited
against Almeria by her not siding with her against her daughters, now
rose to the highest pitch, when she perceived what was going on. No
crime could in her eyes be greater than that of seceding from her party.
Her violence in party matters was heightened by the desire to contrast
herself with her sister Pierrepoint's courtly policy. Lady Bradstone,
all the time, knew and cared very little about politics, except so far
as they afforded her opportunities for the display of spirit and
eloquence. She had a fine flow of words, and loved to engage in
argument, especially as she had often been told by g |
