“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 Précieuses Ridicules,’ and ‘Les Femmes Savantes,’ and may borrow from Molière 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 negotiations5, 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.”
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