Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “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, tête-à-tête, — 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 scarcel
y 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?”