Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Have you no pity? and is not pity akin to love?”

  “Akin! Oh, yes, ma’am, it is akin; but for that very reason it may not be a friend — relations, you know, in these days, are as often enemies as friends.”

  “Vile pun! far-fetched quibble! — provoking boy! — But I see you are not in a humour to be serious, so I will take another time to talk to you of this affair.”

  “Now or never, ma’am, for mercy’s sake!”

  “Mercy’s sake! you who show none — Ah! this is the way with you men; all this is play to you, but death to us.”

  “Death! dear ma’am; ladies, you know as well as I do, don’t die of love in these days — you would not make a fool of your son.”

  “I could not; nor could any other woman — that is clear: but amongst us, I am afraid we have, undesignedly indeed, but irremediably, made a fool of this poor confiding girl.”

  “But, ma’am, in whom did she confide? not in me, I’ll swear. I have nothing to reproach myself with, thank God! — My conscience is clear; I have been as ungallant as possible. I have been as cruel as my nature would permit. I am sure no one can charge me with giving false promises — I scarcely speak — nor false hopes, for I scarcely look at the young lady.”

  “So, then, you know who the young lady in question is?”

  “Perhaps I ought not to pretend to know.”

  “That would be useless affectation, alas! for I fear many know, and have seen, and heard, much more than you have — or I either.”

  Here Mrs. Beaumont observed that her son’s colour changed, and that he suddenly grew serious: aware that she had now touched upon the right chord, she struck it again “with a master’s hand and prophet’s fire.” She declared that all the world took it for granted that Miss Hunter was to be married to Mr. Beaumont; that it was talked of every where; that she was asked continually by her correspondents, when the marriage was to take place? — in confirmation of which assertion, she produced bundles of letters from her pockets, from Mrs. and Miss, and from Lady This, and Lady That.

  “Nay,” continued she, “if it were confined even to the circle of one’s private friends and acquaintance, I should not so much mind it, for one might contradict, and have it contradicted, and one might send the poor thing away to some watering-place, and the report might die away, as reports do — sometimes. But all that sort of thing it is too late to think of now — for the thing is public! quite public! got into the newspapers! Here’s a paragraph I cut out this very morning from my paper, lest the poor girl should see it. The other day, I believe you saw it yourself, there was something of the same sort. ‘We hear that, as soon as he comes of age, Mr. Beaumont, of Beaumont Park, is to lead to the altar of Hymen, Miss Hunter, sister to Sir John Hunter, of Devonshire.’ Well, — after you left the room, Albina took up the paper you had been reading; and when she saw this paragraph, I thought she would have dropped. I did not know what to do. Whatever I could say, you know, would only make it worse. I tried to turn it off, and talked of twenty things; but it would not do — no, no, it is too serious for that: well, though I believe she would rather have put her hand in the fire, she had the courage to speak to me about it herself.”

  “And what did she say, ma’am?” inquired Mr. Beaumont, eagerly.

  “Poor simple creature! she had but one idea — that you had seen it! that she would not for the world you had read it. What would you think of her — she should never be able to meet you again — What could she do? It must be contradicted — somebody must contradict it. Then she worried me to have it contradicted in the papers. I told her I did not well know how that could be done, and urged that it would be much more prudent not to fix attention upon the parties by more paragraphs. But she was not in a state to think of prudence; — no. What would you think was the only idea in her mind? — If I would not write, she would write that minute herself, and sign her name. This, and a thousand wild things, she said, till I was forced to be quite angry, and to tell her she must be governed by those who had more discretion than herself. Then she was so subdued, so ashamed — really my heart bled for her, even whilst I scolded her. But it is quite necessary to be harsh with her; for she has no more foresight, nor art, nor command of herself sometimes, than a child of five years old. I assure you, I was rejoiced to get her away before Mr. Palmer came, for a new eye coming into a family sees so much one wouldn’t wish to be seen. You know it would be terrible to have the poor young creature commit and expose herself to a stranger so early in life. Indeed, as it is, I am persuaded no one will ever think of marrying her, if you do not. —— In worldly prudence — but of that she has not an atom — in worldly prudence she might do better, or as well, certainly; for her fortune will be very considerable. Sir John means to add to it, when he gets the Wigram estate; and the old uncle, Wigram, can’t live for ever. But poor Albina, I dare swear, does not know what fortune she is to have, nor what you have. Love! love! all for love! — and all in vain. She is certainly very much to be pitied.”

  Longer might Mrs. Beaumont have continued in monologue, without danger of interruption from her son, who stood resolved to hear the utmost sum of all that she should say on the subject. Never interrupting her, he only filled certain pauses, that seemed expectant of reply, with the phrases—”I am very sorry, indeed, ma’am” — and, “Really, ma’am, it is out of my power to help it.” But Mrs. Beaumont observed that the latter phrase had been omitted as she proceeded — and “I am very sorry indeed, ma’am,” he repeated less as words of course, and more and more as if they came from the heart. Having so far, successfully, as she thought, worked upon her son’s good-nature, and seeing her daughter through the trees coming towards them, she abruptly exclaimed, “Promise me, at all events, dearest Edward, I conjure you; promise me that you will not make proposals any where else, without letting me know of it beforehand, — and give me time,” joining her hands in a supplicating attitude, “give me but a few weeks, to prepare my poor little Albina for this sad, sad stroke!”

  “I promise you, madam, that I will not, directly or indirectly, make an offer of my hand or heart to any woman, without previously letting you know my determination. And as for a few weeks, more or less — my mother, surely, need not supplicate, but simply let me know her wishes — even without her reasons, they would have been sufficient with me. Do I satisfy you now, madam?”

  “More than satisfy — as you ever do, ever will, my dear son.”

  “But you will require no more on this subject — I must be left master of myself.”

  “Indubitably — certainly — master of yourself — most certainly — of course.”

  Mr. Beaumont was going to add something beginning with, “It is better, at once, to tell you, that I can never—” But Mrs. Beaumont stopped him with, “Hush! my dear, hush! not a word more, for here is Amelia, and I cannot talk on this subject before her, you know. —— My beloved Amelia, how languid you look! I fear that, to please me, you have taken too long a walk; and Mr. Palmer won’t see you in your best looks, after all. — What note is that you have in your hand?”

  “A note from Miss Walsingham, mamma.”

  “Oh! the chickenpox! take caer! letters, notes, every thing may convey the infection,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, snatching the paper. “How could dearest Miss Walsingham be so giddy as to answer my note, after what I said in my postscript! — How did this note come?”

  “By the little postboy, mamma; I met him at the porter’s lodge.”

  “But what is all this strange thing?” said Mrs. Beaumont, after having read the note twice over. — It contained a certificate from the parish minister and churchwardens, apothecary, and surgeon, bearing witness, one and all, that there was no individual, man, woman, or child, in the parish, or within three miles of Walsingham House, who was even under any suspicion of having the chickenpox.

  “My father desires me to send Mrs. Beaumont the enclosed clean bill of health — by which she will find that we need be no longer subject to q
uarantine; and, unless some other reasons prevent our having the pleasure of seeing her, we may hope soon that she will favour us with her long promised visit.

  “Yours, sincerely,

  “MARIANNE WALSINGHAM.”

  “I am delighted,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “to find it was a false report, and that we shall not be kept, the Lord knows how long, away from the dear Walsinghams.”

  “Then we can go to them to-morrow, can’t we, mamma? And I will write, and say so, shall I?” said Amelia.

  “No need to write, my dear; if we promise for any particular day, and are not able to go, that seems unkind, and is taken ill, you see. And as Mr. Palmer is coming, we can’t leave him.”

  “But he will go with us surely,” said Mr. Beaumont. “The Walsinghams are as much his relations as we are; and if he comes two hundred miles to see us, he will, surely, go seven to see them.”

  “True,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “but it is civil and kind to leave him to fix his own day, poor old gentleman. After so long a journey, we must allow him some rest. Consider, he can’t go galloping about as you do, dear Edward.”

  “But,” said Amelia, “as the Walsinghams know he is to be in the country, they will of course come to see him immediately.”

  “How do they know he is to be in the country?”

  “I thought — I took it for granted, you told them so, mamma, when you wrote about not going to Walsingham House, on Mr. Walsingham’s birthday.”

  “No, my dear; I was so full of the chickenpox, and terror about you, I could think of nothing else.”

  “Thank you, dear mother — but now that is out of the question, I had best write a line by the return of the postboy, to say, that Mr. Palmer is to be here to-day, and that he stays only one week.”

  “Certainly! love — but let me write about it, for I have particular reasons. And, my dear, now we are by ourselves, let me caution you not to mention that Mr. Palmer can stay but one week: in the first place it is uncivil to him, for we are not sure of it, and it is like driving him away; and in the next place, there are reasons I can’t explain to you, that know so little of the world, my dear Amelia — but, in general, it is always foolish to mention things.”

  “Always foolish to mention things!” cried Mr. Beaumont, smiling.

  “Of this sort, I mean,” said Mrs. Beaumont, a little disconcerted.

  “Of what sort?” persisted her son.

  “Hush! my dear; here’s the postboy and the ass.”

  “Any letters, my good little boy? Any letters for me?”

  “I has, madam, a many for the house. I does not know for who — the bag will tell,” said the boy, unstrapping the bag from his shoulders.

  “Give it to me, then,” said Mrs. Beaumont: “I am anxious for letters always.” She was peculiarly anxious now to open the post-bag, to put a stop to a conversation which did not please her. Whilst seated on a rustic seat, under a spreading beech, our heroine, with her accustomed looks of mystery, examined the seals of her numerous and important letters, to ascertain whether they had been opened at the post-office, or whether their folds might have been pervious to any prying eye. Her son tore the covers off the newspapers; and, as he unfolded one, Amelia leaned upon his shoulder, and whispered softly, “Any news of the fleet, brother?”

  Mrs. Beaumont, than whom Fine-ear himself had not quicker auditory nerves, especially for indiscreet whispers, looked up from her letters, and examined, unperceived, the countenance of Amelia, who was searching with eagerness the columns of the paper. As Mr. Beaumont turned over the leaf, Amelia looked up, and, seeing her mother’s eyes fixed upon her, coloured; and from want of presence of mind to invent any thing better to say, asked if her mother wished to have the papers?

  “No,” said Mrs. Beaumont, coldly, “not I, Amelia; I am not such a politician as you are grown.”

  Amelia withdrew her attention, or at least her eyes, from the paper, and had recourse to the beech-tree, the beautiful foliage of which she studied with profound attention.

  “God bless me! here’s news! news of the fleet!” cried Beaumont, turning suddenly to his sister; and then recollecting himself, to his mother. “Ma’am, they say there has been a great engagement between the French and Spaniards, and the English — particulars not known yet: but, they say, ten sail of the French line are taken, and four Spaniards blown up, and six Spanish men-of-war disabled, and a treasure-ship taken. Walsingham must have been in the engagement — My horse! — I’ll gallop over this minute, and know from the Walsinghams if they have seen the papers, and if there’s any thing more about it in their papers.”

  “Gallop! my dearest Edward,” said his mother, standing in his path; “but you don’t consider Mr. Palmer—”

  “Damn Mr. Palmer! I beg your pardon, mother — I mean no harm to the old gentleman — friend of my father’s — great respect for him — I’ll be back by dinner-time, back ready to receive him — he can’t be here till six — only five by me, now! Ma’am, I shall have more than time to dress, too, cool as a cucumber, ready to receive the good old fellow.”

  “In one short hour, my dear! — seven miles to Walsingham House, and seven back again, and all the time you will waste there, and to dress too — only consider!”

  “I do consider, ma’am; and have considered every thing in the world. My horse will carry me there and back in fifty minutes, easily, and five to spare, I’ll be bound. I sha’n’t light — so where’s the paper? I’m off.”

  “Well — order your horse, and leave me the paper, at least, while he is getting ready. Ride by this way, and you will find us here — where is this famous paragraph?”

  Beaumont drew the paper crumpled from the pocket into which he had thrust it — ran off for his horse, and quickly returned mounted. “Give me the paper, good friends! — I’m off.”

  “Away, then, my dear; since you will heat yourself for nothing. But only let me point out to you,” said she, holding the paper fast whilst she held it up to him, “that this whole report rests on no authority whatever; not a word of it in the gazette; not a line from the admiralty; no official account; no bulletin; no credit given to the rumour at Lloyd’s; stocks the same. — And how did the news come? Not even the news-writer pretends it came through any the least respectable channel. A frigate in latitude the Lord knows what! saw a fleet in a fog — might be Spanish — might be French — might be English — spoke another frigate some days afterwards, who heard firing: well — firing says nothing. But the frigate turns this firing into an engagement, and a victory; and presently communicates the news to a collier, and the collier tells another collier, and so it goes up the Thames, to some wonder-maker, standing agape for a paragraph, to secure a dinner. To the press the news goes, just as our paper is coming out; and to be sure we shall have a contradiction and an apology in our next.”

  “Well, ma’am; but I will ask Mr. Walsingham what he thinks, and show him the paper.”

  “Do, if you like it, my dear; I never control you; but don’t overheat yourself for nothing. What can Mr. Walsingham, or all the Walsinghams in the world, tell more than we can? and as to showing him the paper, you know he takes the same paper. But don’t let me detain you. — Amelia, who is that coming through the gate? Mr. Palmer’s servant, I protest!”

  “Well; it can’t be, I see!” said Beaumont, dismounting.

  “Take away your master’s horse — quick — quick! — Amelia, my love, to dress! I must have you ready to receive your godfather’s blessing. Consider, Mr. Palmer was your father’s earliest friend; and besides, he is a relation, though distant; and it is always a good and prudent thing to keep up relationships. Many a fine estate has come from very distant relations most unexpectedly. And even independently of all relationships, when friendships are properly cultivated, there’s no knowing to what they may lead; — not that I look to any thing of that sort here. But before you see Mr. Palmer, just as we are walking home, and quite to ourselves, let me give you some leading hints about this old gentle
man’s character, which I have gathered, no matter how, for your advantage, my dear children. He is a humourist, and must not be opposed in any of his oddities: he is used to be waited upon, and attended to, as all these men are who have lived in the West Indies. A bon vivant, of course. Edward, produce your best wines — the pilau and currie, and all that, leave to me. I had special notice of his love for a john-doree, and a john-doree I have for him. But now I am going to give you the master-key to his heart. Like all men who have made great fortunes, he loves to feel continually the importance his wealth confers; he loves to feel that wealth does every thing; is superior to every thing — to birth and titles especially: it is his pride to think himself, though a commoner, far above any man who condescends to take a title. He hates persons of quality; therefore, whilst he is here, not a word in favour of any titled person. Forget the whole house of peers — send them all to Coventry — all to Coventry, remember. — And, now you have the key to his heart, go and dress, to be ready for him.”

  Having thus given her private instructions, and advanced her secret plans, Mrs. Beaumont repaired to her toilet, well satisfied with her morning’s work.

  CHAPTER V.

  “Chi mi fa piu carezze che non sole; O m’ha ingannato, o ingannar me vuole.”

  “By St. George, there’s nothing like Old England for comfort!” cried Mr. Palmer, settling himself in his arm-chair in the evening; “nothing after all in any part of the known world, like Old England for comfort. Why, madam, there’s not another people in the universe that have in any of their languages a name even for comfort. The French have been forced to borrow it; but now they have got it, they don’t know how to use it, nor even how to pronounce it, poor devils! Well, there’s nothing like Old England for comfort.”

  “Ah! nothing like Old England for comfort!” echoed Mrs. Beaumont, in a sentimental tone, though at that instant her thoughts were far distant from her words; for this declaration of his love for Old England alarmed her with the notion that he might change his mind about returning immediately to Jamaica, and that he might take root again and flourish for years to come in his native soil — perhaps in her neighbourhood, to the bane of all her favourite projects. What would become of her scheme of marrying Amelia to the baronet, and her son to the docile Albina? What would become of the scheme of preventing him from being acquainted with the Walsinghams? For a week it might be practicable to keep them asunder by policising, but this could never be effected if he were to settle, or even to make any long stay, in the country. The Walsinghams would be affronted, and then what would become of their interest in the county? Her son could not be returned without that. And, worse than all the rest, Mr. Palmer might take a fancy to see these Walsinghams, who were as nearly related to him as the Beaumonts; and seeing, he might prefer, and preferring, he might possibly leave half, nay, perhaps the whole, of his large fortune to them, — and thus all her hopes and projects might at once be frustrated. Little aware of the long and perplexing trains of ideas, which his honest ejaculation in favour of his native country had raised, Mr. Palmer went on with his own comfortable thoughts.