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. Be
aumont, 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 thi
s 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.
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