Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Kindest regards and affectionate remembrances to all your dear circle. — Any news of the young captain? Any hopes of his return from sea?

  “Ever with perfect truth, my dearest Miss Walsingham’s sincere friend,

  “EUGENIA BEAUMONT.

  “P.S. — Private — read to yourself.

  “To be candid with you, my dear young friend, my secret reason for denying myself the pleasure of Tuesday’s fête is, that I have just heard that there is a shocking chicken-pox in the village near you; and I confess it is one of my weaknesses to dread even the bare rumour of such a thing, on account of my Amelia: but I should not wish to have this mentioned in your house, because you must be sensible your father would think it an idle womanish fear; and you know how anxious I am for his esteem.

  “Burn this, I beseech you ——

  “Upon second thoughts, I believe it will be best to tell the truth, and the whole truth, to your father, if you should see that nothing else will do —— In short, I write in haste, and must trust now, as ever, entirely to your discretion.”

  “Well, my dear,” said Mr. Walsingham to his daughter, as the young lady sat at the breakfast table looking over this note, “how long do you mean to sit the picture of The Delicate Embarrassment? To relieve you as far as in me lies, let me assure you that I shall not ask to see this note of Mrs. Beaumont’s, which as usual seems to contain some mighty mystery.”

  “No great mystery; only — —”

  “Only — some minikin mystery?” said Mr. Walsingham. “Yes, ‘Elle est politique pour des choux et des raves.’ — This charming widow Beaumont is manoeuvrer.1 We can’t well make an English word of it. The species, thank Heaven! is not so numerous yet in England as to require a generic name. The description, however, has been touched by one of our poets:

  ‘Julia’s a manager: she’s born for rule,

  And knows her wiser husband is a fool.

  For her own breakfast she’ll project a scheme,

  Nor take her tea without a stratagem.’

  Even from the time when Mrs. Beaumont was a girl of sixteen I remember her manoeuvring to gain a husband, and then manoeuvring to manage him, which she did with triumphant address.”

  “What sort of a man was Colonel Beaumont?”

  “An excellent man; an open-hearted soldier, of the strictest honour and integrity.”

  “Then is it not much in Mrs. Beaumont’s favour, that she enjoyed the confidence of such a man, and that he left her guardian to his son and daughter?”

  “If he had lived with her long enough to become acquainted with her real character, what you say, my dear, would be unanswerable. But Colonel Beaumont died a few years after his marriage, and during those few years he was chiefly with his regiment.”

  “You will, however, allow,” said Miss Walsingham, “that since his death Mrs. Beaumont has justified his confidence. — Has she not been a good guardian, and an affectionate mother?”

  “Why — as a guardian, I think she has allowed her son too much liberty, and too much money. I have heard that young Beaumont has lost a considerable sum at Newmarket, I grant you that Mrs. Beaumont is an affectionate mother, and I am convinced that she is extremely anxious to advance the worldly interests of her children; still I cannot, my dear, agree with you, that she is a good mother. In the whole course of the education of her son and daughter, she has pursued a system of artifice. Whatever she wanted them to learn, or to do, or to leave undone, some stratagem, sentimental or scenic, was employed; somebody was to hint to some other body to act upon Amelia to make her do so and so. Nothing — that is, nothing like truth, ever came directly from the mother: there were always whisperings and mysteries, and ‘Don’t say that before Amelia!’ and ‘I would not have this told to Edward,’ because it might make him like something that she did not wish that he should like, and that she had her reasons for not letting him know that she did not wish him to like. There was always some truth to be concealed for some mighty good purpose; and things and persons were to be represented in false lights, to produce on some particular occasion some partial effect. All this succeeded admirably in detail, and for the management of helpless, ignorant, credulous childhood. But mark the consequences of this system: children grow up, and cannot always see, hear, and understand, just as their mothers please. They will go into the world; they will mix with others; their eyes will be opened; they will see through the whole system of artifice by which their childhood was so cleverly managed; and then, confidence in the parent must be destroyed for ever.”

  Miss Walsingham acknowledged the truth of what her father said; but she observed that this was a common error in education, which had the sanction of high authority in its favour; even the eloquent Rousseau, and the elegant and ingenious Madame de Genlis. “And it is certain,” continued Miss Walsingham, “that Mrs. Beaumont has not made her children artful; both Amelia and Mr. Beaumont are remarkably open, sincere, honourable characters. Mr. Beaumont, indeed, carries his sincerity almost to a fault: he is too blunt, perhaps, in his manner; — and Amelia, though she is of such a timid, gentle temper, and so much afraid of giving pain, has always courage enough to speak the truth, even in circumstances where it is most difficult. So at least you must allow, my dear father, that Mrs. Beaumont has made her children sincere.”

  “I am sorry, my dear, to seem uncharitable; but I must observe, that sometimes the very faults of parents produce a tendency to opposite virtues in their children: for the children suffer by the consequences of these faults, and detecting, despise, and resolve to avoid them. As to Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, their acquaintance with our family has been no unfavourable circumstance in their education. They saw amongst us the advantages of sincerity: they became attached to you, and to my excellent ward Captain Walsingham; he obtained strong power over young Beaumont’s mind, and used it to the best purposes. Your friendship for Amelia was, I think, equally advantageous to her: as you are nearly of the same age, you had opportunities of winning her confidence; and your stronger mind fortified hers, and inspired her timid character with the courage necessary to be sincere.”

  “Well,” persisted Miss Walsingham, “though Mrs. Beaumont may have used a little finesse towards her children in trifles, yet in matters of consequence, I do think that she has no interest but theirs; and her affection for them will make her lay aside all art, when their happiness is at stake.”

  Mr. Walsingham shook his head.—”And do you then really believe, my dear Marianne, that Mrs. Beaumont would consider any thing, for instance, in the marriage of her son and daughter, but fortune, and what the world calls connexion and establishments?”

  “Certainly I cannot think that these are Mrs. Beaumont’s first objects; because we are people but of small fortune, and yet she prefers us to many of large estates and higher station.”

  “You should say, she professes to prefer us,” replied Mr. Walsingham. “And do you really believe her to be sincere? Now, there is my ward, Captain Walsingham, for whom she pretends to have such a regard, do you think that Mrs. Beaumont wishes her daughter should marry him?”

  “I do, indeed; but Mrs. Beaumont must speak cautiously on that subject; this is prudence, not dissimulation: for you know that my cousin Walsingham never declared his attachment to Miss Beaumont; on the contrary, he always took the most scrupulous pains to conceal it from her, because he had not fortune enough to marry, and he was too honourable to attempt, or even to wish, to engage the affections of one to whom he had no prospect of being united.”

  “He is a noble fellow!” exclaimed Mr. Walsingham. “There is no sacrifice of pleasure or interest he would hesitate to make to his duty. For his friends there is no exertion, no endurance, no forbearance, of which he has not shown himself capable. For his country —— All I ask from Heaven for him is, opportunity to serve his country. Whether circumstances, whether success, will ever prove his merits to the world, I cannot foretell; but I shall always glory in him as my ward, my relation, my friend.”r />
  “Mrs. Beaumont speaks of him just as you do,” said Miss Walsingham.

  “Speaks, but not thinks,” said Mr. Walsingham. “No, no! Captain Walsingham is not the man she desires for a son-in-law. She wants to marry Amelia to Sir John Hunter.”

  “To Sir John Hunter!”

  “Yes, to Sir John Hunter, a being without literature, without morals, without even youth, to plead in his favour. He is nearly forty years old, old enough to be Amelia’s father; yet this is the man whom Mrs. Beaumont prefers for the husband of her beloved daughter, because he is heir presumptive to a great estate, and has the chance of a reversionary earldom. — And this is your modern good mother.”

  “Oh, no, no!” cried Miss Walsingham, “you do Mrs. Beaumont injustice; I assure you she despises Sir John Hunter as much as we do.”

  “Yet observe the court she has paid to the whole family of the Hunters.”

  “Yes, but that has been merely from regard to the late Lady Hunter, who was her particular friend.”

  “Particular friend! a vamped-up, sentimental conversation reason.”

  “But I assure you,” persisted Miss Walsingham, “that I know Mrs. Beaumont’s mind better than you do, father, at least on this subject.”

  “You! a girl of eighteen, pretend to know a manoeuvrer of her age!”

  “Only let me tell you my reasons. — It was but last week that Mrs. Beaumont told me that she did not wish to encourage Sir John Hunter, and that she should be perfectly happy if she could see Amelia united to such a man as Captain Walsingham.”

  “Such a man as Captain Walsingham! nicely guarded expression!”

  “But you have not heard all yet. — Mrs. Beaumont anxiously inquired from me whether he had made any prize-money, whether there was any chance of his returning soon; and she added, with particular emphasis, ‘You don’t know how much I wish it! You don’t know what a favourite he is of mine!’”

  “That last, I will lay any wager,” cried Mr. Walsingham, “she said in a whisper, and in a corner.”

  “Yes, but she could not do otherwise, for Amelia was present. Mrs. Beaumont took me aside.”

  “Aside; ay, ay, but take care, I advise you, of her asides, and her whisperings, and her cornerings, and her inuendoes, and semiconfidences, lest your own happiness, my dear, unsuspecting, enthusiastic daughter, should be the sacrifice.”

  Miss Walsingham now stood perfectly silent, in embarrassed and breathless anxiety.

  “I see,” continued her father, “that Mrs. Beaumont, for whose mighty genius one intrigue at a time is not sufficient, wants also to persuade you, my dear, that she wishes to have you for a daughter-in-law: and yet all the time she is doing every thing she can to make her son marry that fool, Miss Hunter, merely because she has two hundred thousand pounds fortune.”

  “There I can assure you that you are mistaken,” said Miss Walsingham; “Mrs. Beaumont dreads that her son should marry Miss Hunter. Mrs. Beaumont thinks her as silly as you do, and complained to me of her having no taste for literature, or for any thing, but dress, and trifling conversation.”

  “I wonder, then, that Mrs. Beaumont selects her continually for her companion.”

  “She thinks Miss Hunter the most insipid companion in the world; but I dare not tell you, lest you should laugh at me again, that it was for the sake of the late Lady Hunter that Mrs. Beaumont was so kind to the daughter; and now Miss Hunter is so fond of her, and so grateful, that, as Mrs. Beaumont says, it would be cruelty to shake her off.”

  “Mighty plausible! But the truth of all this, begging Mrs. Beaumont’s pardon, I doubt; I will not call it a falsehood, but I may be permitted to call it a Beaumont. Time will show: and in the mean time, my dear daughter, be on your guard against Mrs. Beaumont’s art, and against your own credulity. The momentary pain I give my friends by speaking the plain truth, I have always found overbalanced by the pleasure and advantage of mutual confidence. Our domestic happiness has arisen chiefly from our habits of openness and sincerity. Our whole souls are laid open; there is no management, no ‘intrigue de cabinet, no ‘esprit de la ligue.’”

  Mr. Walsingham now left the room; and Miss Walsingham, absorbed in reflections more interesting to her than even the defence of Mrs. Beaumont, went out to walk. Her father’s house was situated in a beautiful part of Devonshire, near the sea-shore, in the neighbourhood of Plymouth; and as Miss Walsingham was walking on the beach, she saw an old fisherman mooring his boat to the projecting stump of a tree. His figure was so picturesque, that she stopped to sketch it; and as she was drawing, a woman came from the cottage near the shore to ask the fisherman what luck he had had. “A fine turbot,” says he, “and a john-doree.”

  “Then away with them this minute to Beaumont Park,” said the woman; “for here’s Madam Beaumont’s man, Martin, called in a flustrum while you was away, to say madam must have the nicest of our fish, whatsomever it might be, and a john-doree, if it could be had for love or money, for Tuesday.” — Here the woman, perceiving Miss Walsingham, dropped a curtsy. “Your humble servant, Miss Walsingham,” said the woman.

  “On Tuesday?” said Miss Walsingham: “are you sure that Mrs. Beaumont bespoke the fish for Tuesday?”

  “Oh, sartin sure, miss; for Martin mentioned, moreover, what he had heard talk in the servants’ hall, that there is to be a very pettiklar old gentleman, as rich! as rich! as rich can be! from foreign parts, and a great friend of the colonel that’s dead; and he — that is, the old pettiklar gentleman — is to be down all the way from Lon’on to dine at the park on Tuesday for sartin: so, husband, away with the john-doree and the turbot, while they be fresh.”

  “But why,” thought Miss Walsingham, “did not Mrs. Beaumont tell us the plain truth, if this is the truth?”

  CHAPTER II.

  “Young Hermes next, a close contriving god, Her brows encircled with his serpent rod; Then plots and fair excuses fill her brain, And views of breaking am’rous vows for gain.”

  The information which Mrs. Beaumont’s man, Martin, had learned from the servants’ hall, and had communicated to the fisherman’s wife, was more correct, and had been less amplified, embellished, misunderstood, or misrepresented, than is usually found to be the case with pieces of news which are so heard and so repeated. It was true that Mrs. Beaumont expected to see on Tuesday an old gentleman, a Mr. Palmer, who had been a friend of her husband’s; he had lately returned from Jamaica, where he had made a large fortune. It is true, also, that this old gentleman was a little particular, but not precisely in the sense in which the fisherman’s wife understood the phrase; he was not particularly fond of john-dorees and turbots, but he was particularly fond of making his fellow-creatures happy; particularly generous, particularly open and honest in his nature, abhorring all artifice himself, and unsuspicious of it in others. He was unacquainted with Mrs. Beaumont’s character, as he had been for many years in the West Indies, and he knew her only from her letters, in which she appeared every thing that was candid and amiable. His great friendship for her deceased husband also inclined him to like her. Colonel Beaumont had appointed him one of the guardians of his children, but Mr. Palmer, being absent from England, had declined to act: he was also trustee to Mrs. Beaumont’s marriage-settlement, and she had represented that it was necessary he should be present at the settlement of her family affairs upon her son’s coming of age; an event which was to take place in a few days. The urgent representations of Mrs. Beaumont, and the anxious desire she expressed to see Mr. Palmer, had at last prevailed with the good old gentleman to journey down to Beaumont Park, though he was a valetudinarian, and though he was obliged, he said, to return to Jamaica with the West India fleet, which was expected to sail in ten days; so that he announced positively that he could stay but a week at Beaumont Park with his good friends and relations.

  He was related but distantly to the Beaumonts, and he stood in precisely the same degree of relationship to the Walsinghams. He had no other relations, and his fortune was comple
tely at his own disposal. On this fortune our cunning widow had speculated long and deeply, though in fact there was no occasion for art: it was Mr. Palmer’s intention to leave his large fortune to the Beaumonts; or to divide it between the Beaumont and Walsingham families; and had she been sincere in her professed desire of a complete union by a double marriage between the representatives of the families, her favourite object would have been, in either case, equally secure. Here was a plain, easy road to her object; but it was too direct for Mrs. Beaumont. With all her abilities, she could never comprehend the axiom that a right line is the shortest possible line between any two points: — an axiom equally true in morals and in mathematics. No, the serpentine line was, in her opinion, not only the most beautiful, but the most expeditious, safe, and convenient.

  She had formed a triple scheme of such intricacy, that it is necessary distinctly to state the argument of her plot, lest the action should be too complicated to be easily developed.

  She had, in the first place, a design of engrossing the whole of Mr. Palmer’s fortune for her own family; and for this purpose she determined to prevent Mr. Palmer from becoming acquainted with his other relations, the Walsinghams, to whom she had always had a secret dislike, because they were of remarkably open, sincere characters. As Mr. Palmer proposed to stay but a week in the country, this scheme of preventing their meeting seemed feasible.

  In the second place, Mrs. Beaumont wished to marry her daughter to Sir John Hunter, because Sir John was heir expectant to a large estate, called the Wigram estate, and because there was in his family a certain reversionary title, the earldom of Puckeridge, which would devolve to Sir John after the death of a near relation.

  In the third place, Mrs. Beaumont wished to marry her own son to Miss Hunter, who was Sir John’s sister by a second marriage, and above twenty years younger than he was: this lady was preferred to Miss Walsingham for a daughter-in-law, for the reasons which Mr. Walsingham had given; because she possessed an independent fortune of two hundred thousand pounds, and because she was so childish and silly that Mrs. Beaumont thought she could always manage her easily, and by this means retain power over her son. Miss Hunter was very pretty, and Mrs. Beaumont had observed that her son had sometimes been struck with her beauty sufficiently to give hopes that, by proper management, he might be diverted from his serious, sober preference of Miss Walsingham.