Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Mrs. Beaumont foresaw many difficulties in the execution of these plans. She knew that Amelia liked Captain Walsingham, and that Captain Walsingham was attached to her, though he had never declared his love: and she dreaded that Captain Walsingham, who was at this time at sea, should return, just whilst Mr. Palmer was with her; because she was well aware that the captain was a kind of man Mr. Palmer would infinitely prefer to Sir John Hunter. Indeed, she had been secretly informed that Mr. Palmer hated every one who had a title; therefore she could not, whilst he was with her, openly encourage Sir John Hunter in his addresses to Amelia. To conciliate these seemingly incompatible schemes, she determined —— But let our heroine speak for herself.

  “My dearest Miss Hunter,” said she, “now we are by ourselves, let me open my mind to you; I have been watching for an opportunity these two days, but so hurried as I have been! — Where’s Amelia?”

  “Out walking, ma’am. She told me you begged her to walk to get rid of her head-ache; and that she might look well to-day, as Mr. Palmer is to come. I would not go with her, because you whispered to me at breakfast that you had something very particular to say to me.”

  “But you did not give that as a reason, I hope! Surely you didn’t tell Amelia that I had something particular to say to you?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am; I told her that I had something to do about my dress — and so I had — my new hat to try on.”

  “True, my love; quite right; for you know I wouldn’t have her suspect that we had any thing to say to each other that we didn’t wish her to hear, especially as it is about herself.”

  “Herself! — Oh, is it?” said Miss Hunter, in a tone of disappointment.

  “And about you, too, my darling. Be assured I have no daughter I love better, or ever shall. With such a son as I have, and such a daughter-in-law as I hope and trust I shall have ere long, I shall think myself the most fortunate of mothers.”

  Silly Miss Hunter’s face brightened up again. “But now, my love,” continued Mrs. Beaumont, taking her hand, leading her to a window, and speaking very low, though no one else was in the room, “before we talk any more of what is nearest my heart, I must get you to write a note for me to your brother, directly, for there is a circumstance I forgot — thoughtless creature that I am! but indeed, I never can think when I feel much. Some people are always so collected and prudent. But I have none of that! — Heigho! Well, my dear, you must supply my deficiencies. You will write and tell Sir John, that in my agitation when he made his proposal for my Amelia, of which I so frankly approved, I omitted to warn him, that no hint must be given that I do any thing more than permit him to address my daughter upon an equal footing with any other gentleman who might address her. Stay, my dear; you don’t understand me, I see. In short, to be candid with you — old Mr. Palmer is coming to-day, you know. Now, my dear, you must be aware that it is of the greatest consequence to the interests of my family, of which I hope you always consider yourself (for I have always considered you) as forming a part, and a very distinguished part — I say, my darling, that we must consider that it is our interest in all things to please and humour this good old gentleman. He will be with us but for a week, you know. Well, the point is this. I have been informed from undoubted authority, people who were about him at the time, and knew, that the reason he quarrelled with that nephew of his, who died two years ago, was the young man’s having accepted a baronetage: and at that time old Palmer swore, that no sprig of quality — those were the very words — should ever inherit a shilling of his money. Such a ridiculous whim! But these London merchants, who make great fortunes from nothing, are apt to have their little eccentricities; and then, they have so much pride in their own way, and so much self-will and mercantile downrightness in their manners, that there’s no managing them but by humouring their fancies. I’m convinced, if Mr. Palmer suspected that I even wished Amelia to marry Sir John, he would never leave any of us a farthing, and it would all go to the Walsinghams. So, my dear, do you explain to your brother, that though I have not the least objection to his coming here whilst Mr. Palmer is with us, he must not take umbrage at any seeming coldness in my manner. He knows my heart, I trust; at least, you do, my Albina. And even if I should be obliged to receive or to go to see the Walsinghams, which, by-the-bye, I have taken means to prevent; but if it should happen that they were to hear of Palmer’s being with us, and come, and Sir John should meet them, he must not be surprised or jealous at my speaking in the highest terms of Captain Walsingham. This I shall be obliged to do as a blind before Mr. Palmer. I must make him believe that I prefer a commoner for my son-in-law, or we are all undone with him. You know it is my son’s interest, and yours, as well as your brother’s and Amelia’s, that I consider. So explain all this to him, my dear; you will explain it so much better, and make it so much more palpable to your brother than I could.”

  “Dear Mrs. Beaumont, how can you think so? You who write so well, and such long letters about every thing, and so quick! But goodness! I shall never get it all into a letter I’m afraid, and before Mr. Palmer comes, and then it will soon be dressing-time! La! I could say it all to John in five minutes: what a pity he is not here to-day!”

  “Well, my love, then suppose you were to go to him; as you so prudently remark, things of this sort are always so much easier and better said than written. And now I look at my watch, I see you cannot have time to write a long letter, and to dress. So I believe, though I shall grieve to lose you, I must consent to your going for this one day to your brother’s. My carriage and Williamson shall attend you,” said Mrs. Beaumont, ringing the bell to order the carriage; “but remember you promise me now to come back, positively, to-morrow, or next day at farthest, if I should not be able to send the carriage again to-morrow. I would not, upon any account, have you away, if it can possibly be helped, whilst Mr. Palmer is here, considering you as I do [The carriage to the door directly, and Williamson to attend Miss Hunter] — considering you as I do, my dearest Albina, quite as my own daughter.”

  “Oh, my dearest Mrs. Beaumont, you are so kind!” said the poor girl, whom Mrs. Beaumont could always thus easily pay with words.

  The carriage came to the door with such prompt obedience to Mrs. Beaumont’s summons, that one of a more reflecting or calculating nature than Miss Hunter might have suspected that it had been ordered to be in readiness to carry her away this morning.

  “Fare ye well, my own Albina! be sure you don’t stay long from us,” said Mrs. Beaumont, accompanying her to the hall-door. “A thousand kind things to everybody, and your brother in particular. But, my dear Miss Hunter, one word more,” said she, following to the carriage door, and whispering: “there’s another thing that I must trust to your management and cleverness; — I mentioned that Mr. Palmer was to know nothing of the approbation of Sir John’s suit.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, ma’am, I understand perfectly.”

  “But stay, my love; you must understand, too, that it is to be quite a secret between ourselves, not to be mentioned to my son even; for you know he is sudden in his temper, and warm and quite in the Walsingham interest, and there’s no knowing what might be the consequence if it were to be let out imprudently, and Sir John and Edward both so high-spirited. One can’t be too cautious, my dear, to prevent mischief between gentlemen. So caution your brother to leave it to me to break it, and bring things about with Edward and Amelia,” — [stopping Miss Hunter again as she made a second effort to get into the carriage,]—”You comprehend, my dear, that Amelia is not in the secret yet — so not a word from your brother to her about my approbation! — that would ruin all. I trust to his honour; and besides—” drawing the young lady back for the third whisper. — Miss Hunter stood suspended with one foot in air, and the other on the step; the coachman, impatient to be off, manoeuvred to make his horses restless, whilst at the same time he cried aloud—”So! so! Prancer — stand still, Peacock; stand still, sir!”

  Miss Hunter jumped down on terra firma. “Those ho
rses frighten me so for you, my dear!” said Mrs. Beaumont. “Martin, stand at their heads. My dear child, I won’t detain you, for you’ll be late. I had only to say, that — oh! that I trust implicitly to your brother’s honour; but, besides this, it will not be amiss for you to hint, as you know you can delicately — delicately, you understand — that it is for his interest to leave me to manage every thing. Yet none of this is to be said as if from me — pray don’t let it come from me. Say it all from yourself. Don’t let my name be mentioned at all. Don’t commit me, you understand?”

  “Perfectly, perfectly, ma’am: one kiss, dear Mrs. Beaumont, and adieu. Is my dressing-box in? Tell him to drive fast, for I hate going slow. Dearest Mrs. Beaumont, good bye. I feel as if I were going for an age, though it is only for one day.”

  “Dear, affectionate girl! I love heart — Good bye — Drive fast, as Miss Hunter desires you.”

  Our fair politician, well satisfied with the understanding of her confidante, which never comprehended more than met the ear, and secure in a chargé d’affaires, whose powers it was never necessary to limit, stood on the steps before the house-door, deep in reverie, for some minutes after the carriage had driven away, till she was roused by seeing her son returning from his morning’s ride.

  CHAPTER III.

  “Will you hear a Spanish lady, How she woo’d an English man? Garments gay as rich as may be, Deck’d with jewels, she had on.” THE SPANISH LADY’S LOVE. Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry

  Mr. Beaumont had just been at a neighbouring farm-house, where there lived one of Mr. Walsingham’s tenants; a man of the name of Birch, a respectable farmer, who was originally from Ireland, and whose son was at sea with Captain Walsingham. The captain had taken young Birch under his particular care, at Mr. Walsingham’s request.

  Birch’s parents had this day received a letter from their son, which in the joy and pride of their hearts they showed to Mr. Beaumont, who was in the habit of calling at their house to inquire if they had heard any news of their son, or of Captain Walsingham. Mr. Beaumont liked to read Birch’s letters, because they were written with characteristic simplicity and affection, and somewhat in the Irish idiom, which this young sailor’s English education had not made him entirely forget.

  LETTER FROM BIRCH TO HIS PARENTS.

  “H.M.S. l’Ambuscade.

  “HONOURED PARENTS,

  “I write this from sea, lat. N. 44.15 — long. W. 9.45 — wind N.N.E. — to let you know you will not see me so soon as I said in my last, of the 16th. Yesterday, P.M. two o’clock, some despatches were brought to my good captain, by the Pickle sloop, which will to-morrow, wind and weather permitting, alter our destination. What the nature of them is I cannot impart to you, for it has not transpired beyond the lieutenants; but whatever I do under the orders of my good captain, I am satisfied and confident all is for the best. For my own share, I long for an opportunity of fighting the French, and of showing the captain what is in me, and that the pains he has took to make a gentleman, and an honour to his majesty’s service, of me, is not thrown away. Had he been my own father, or brother, he could not be better, or done more. God willing, I will never disgrace his principles, for it would be my ambition to be like him in every respect; and he says, if I behave myself as I ought, I shall soon be a lieutenant; and a lieutenant in his majesty’s navy is as good a gentleman as any in England, and has a right (tell my sister Kitty) to hand the first woman in Lon’on out of her carriage, if he pleases, and if she pleases.

  “Now we talk of ladies, and as please God we shall soon be in action, and may not have another opportunity of writing to you this great while, for there is talk of our sailing southward with the fleet to bring the French and Spaniards to action, I think it best to send you all the news I have in this letter. But pray bid Kate, with my love, mind this, that not a word of the following is to take wind for her life, on account of my not knowing if it might be agreeable, or how it might affect my good captain, and others that shall be nameless. You must know then that when we were at —— , where we were stationed six weeks and two days, waiting for the winds, and one cause or other, we used to employ ourselves, I and my captain, taking soundings (which I can’t more particularly explain the nature of to you, especially in a letter); for he always took me out to attend him in preference to any other; and after he had completed his soundings, and had no farther use for me in that job, I asked him leave to go near the same place in the evening to fish, which my good captain consented to (as he always does to what (duty done) can gratify me), provided I was in my ship by ten. Now you must know that there are convents in this country (which you have often heard of, Kitty, no doubt), being damnable places, where young Catholic women are shut up unmarried, often, it is to be reasonably supposed, against their wills. And there is a convent in one of the suburbs which has a high back wall to the garden of it that comes down near the strand; and it was under this wall we two used to sound, and that afterwards I used to be fishing. And one evening, when I was not thinking of any such thing, there comes over the wall a huge nosegay of flowers, with a stone in it, that made me jump. And this for three evenings running the same way, about the same hour; till at last one evening as I was looking up at the wall, as I had now learned to do about the time the nosegays were thrown over, I saw coming down a stone tied to a string, and to the stone a letter, the words of which I can’t particularly take upon me to recollect, because I gave up the paper to my captain, who desired it of me, and took no copy; but the sense was, that in that convent there was shut up a lady, the daughter of an English gentleman by a Spanish wife, both her parents being dead, and her Spanish relations and father-confessor (or catholic priest of a man), not wishing she should get to England, where she might be what she had a right to be by birth, at least by her father’s side (a protestant), shut her up since she was a child. And that there was a relative of hers in England, who with a wicked lawyer or attorney had got possession of her estate, and made every body believe she was dead. And so, it being seven years and more since she was heard of, she is what is called dead in law, which sort of death however won’t signify, if she appears again. Wherefore the letter goes on to say, she would be particularly glad to make her escape, and get over to old England. But she confesses that she is neither young nor handsome, and may-be never may be rich; therefore, that whoever helps her must do it for the sake of doing good and nothing else; for though she would pay all expenses handsomely, she could not promise more. And that she knew the danger of the undertaking to be great; greater for them that would carry her off even than for herself. That she knows, however, that British sailors are brave as they are generous (this part of the letter was very well indited, and went straight to my heart the minute ever I read it); and she wished it could be in the power of Captain Walsingham to take her under his immediate protection, and that she had taken measures so as she could escape over the wall of the garden if he would have a boat in readiness to carry her to his ship; and at the same hour next evening the stone should be let down as usual, and he might fasten his answer to it, which would be drawn up in due course. Concluding all this with, ‘That she would not go at all unless Captain Walsingham came for her himself (certifying himself to be himself, I suppose), for she knew him to be a gentleman by reputation, and she should be safe under his protection, and so would her secret, she was confident, at all events.’ This was the entire and sum total of the letter. So when I had read to the end, and looked for the postscript and all, I found for my pains that the lady mistook me for my captain, or would not have written or thrown the nosegays. So I took the letter to my captain; and what he answered, and how it was settled (by signals, I suppose) between them after, it was not for me to inquire. Not a word more was said by him to me or I to him on the topic, till the very night we were to sail for England. It was then that our captain took me aside, and he says, ‘Birch, will you assist me? I ask this not as your captain, so you are at liberty to do as you please. Will you help me to rescue this
lady, who seems to be unjustly detained, and to carry her back safe to her country and her friends?’ I told him I would do that or any thing else he bid me, confident he would never ask me to do a wrong thing; and as to the lady, I should be proud to help to carry her off to old England and her lawful friends, only I thought (if I might be so bold) it was a pity she was not young and handsome, for his sake. At that he smiled, and only said, ‘Perhaps it was best for him as it was.’ Then he settled about the boat, and who were to go, and when. It was twelve o’clock striking by the great town clock when we were under the walls of the convent, as appointed. And all was hush and silent as the grave for our very lives. For it was a matter of life or death, I promise you, and we all knew as much, and the sailors had a dread of the Inquisition upon them that was beyond all terrible! So we watched and waited, and waited and watched so long, that we thought something must have gone wrong, or that all was found out, and the captain could not delay the ship’s sailing; and he struck his repeater, and it was within a quarter of one, and he said, ‘It is too late; we must put back.’ Just then, I, that was watching with the lantern in my hand, gave notice, and first there comes down a white bundle, fastened to the stone and cord. Then the captain and I fixed the ladder of ropes, and down came the lady, as well as ever she went up, and not a word but away with her: the captain had her in a trice in our boat, safe and snug, and off we put, rowing for the bare life, all silent as ever. I think I hear the striking of our oars and the plashing of the water this minute, which we would have gladly silenced, but could not any way in nature. But none heard it, or at least took any notice against us. I can give you no idea of the terror which the lady manifested when the boat stood out to sea, at the slightest squall of wind, or the least agitation of the waves; for besides being naturally cowardly, as all or most women are for the first time at sea, here was a poor soul who had been watching, and may be fasting, and worn out mind and body with the terror of perfecting her escape from the convent, where she had been immured all her life, and as helpless as a child. So it was wonderful she went through it as well as she did and without screaming, which should be an example to Kate and others. Glad enough even we men were when we reached the ship. There was, at that time, a silence on board you could have heard a pin drop, all being in perfect readiness for getting under way, the sails ready for dropping, and officers and sailors waiting in the greatest expectation of our boat’s return. Our boat passed swiftly alongside, and great beyond belief was the astonishment of all at seeing a woman veiled, hoisted out, and in, and ushered below, half fainting. I never felt more comfortable in my life than when we found her and ourselves safe aboard l’Ambuscade. The anchor was instantly weighed, all sail made, and the ship stood out to sea. To the lady the captain gave up his cabin: double sentries were placed, and as the captain ordered, every precaution that could shield her character in such suspicious circumstances were enforced with the utmost punctilio. I cannot describe, nor can you even conceive, Kate, the degree of curiosity shown about her; all striving to get a sight of her when she first went down, and most zealous they were to bring lights; but that would not do, for they could not see her for her veil. Yet through all we could make out that she was a fine figure of a woman at any rate, and something more than ordinary, from the air she had with her. The next day when she was sitting on deck the wind by times would blow aside her veil so as to give us glimpses of her face; when, to our surprise, and I am sure to the captain’s satisfaction, we found she was beyond all contradiction young and handsome. And moreover I have reason to believe she has fine jewels with her, besides a ring from her own finger, which with a very pretty action she put on his, that next day on deck, as I noticed, when nobody was minding. So that no doubt she is as much richer as she is handsomer than she made believe, contrary to the ways of other women, which is in her favour and my good captain’s; for from what I can judge, after all he has done for her, she has no dislike nor objection to him.