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’épouvantez; Ces pieges-là sont-ils bien ajustés? 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 room. 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.