“Why now I took it into my head from a blush I saw this morning, though how I came to notice it, I don’t know; for to my recollection I have not noticed a girl’s blushing before these twenty years — but, to be sure, here I have as near an interest, almost, as if she were my own daughter — I say, from the blush I saw this morning, when young Beaumont was talking of the gallop he had taken to inquire about Captain Walsingham, I took it into my head that he was the happy man.”
“Oh! my dear sir, he never made any proposals for Amelia.” That was strictly true. “Nor, I am sure, ever thought of it, as far as ever I heard.”
The saving clause of “as far as ever I heard,” prevented this last assertion from coming under that description of falsehoods denominated downright lies.
“Indeed, how could he?” pursued Mrs. Beaumont, “for you know he is no match for Amelia; he has nothing in the world but his commission. No; there never was any proposal from that quarter; and, of course, it is impossible my daughter could think of a man who has no thoughts of her.”
“You know best, my good madam; I merely spoke at random. I’m the worst guesser in the world, especially on these matters: what people tell me, I know; and neither more not less.”
Mrs. Beaumont rejoiced in the simplicity of her companion. “Then, my good friend, it is but fair to tell you,” said she, “that Amelia has an admirer.”
“A lover, hey! Who?”
“Ah, there’s the misfortune; it is a thing I never can consent to.”
“Ha! then now it is out! There’s the reason the girl blushes, and is so absent at times.”
A plan now occurred to Mrs. Beaumont’s scheming imagination which she thought the master-piece of policy. She determined to account for whatever symptoms of embarrassment Mr. Palmer might observe in her daughter, by attributing them to a thwarted attachment for Sir John Hunter; and Mrs. Beaumont resolved to make a merit to Mr. Palmer of opposing this match because the lover was a baronet, and she thought that Mr. Palmer would be pleased by her showing an aversion to the thoughts of her daughter’s marrying a sprig of quality. This ingenious method of paying her court to her open-hearted friend, at the expense equally of truth and of her daughter, she executed with her usual address.
“Well, I’m heartily glad, my dear good madam, to find that you have the same prejudices against sprigs of quality that I have. One good commoner is worth a million of them to my mind. So I told a puppy of a nephew of mine, who would go and buy a baronetage, forsooth — disinherited him! but he is dead, poor puppy.”
“Poor young man! But this is all new to me,” said Mrs. Beaumont, with well-feigned surprise.
“But did not you know, my dear madam, that I had a nephew, and that he is dead?”
“Oh, yes; but not the particulars.”
“No; the particulars I never talk of — not to the poor dog’s credit. It’s well he’s dead, for if he had lived, I am afraid I should have forgiven him. No, no, I never would. But there is no use in thinking any more of that. What were we saying? Oh, about your Amelia — our Amelia, let me call her. If she is so much attached, poor thing, to this man, though he is a baronet, which I own is against him to my fancy, yet it is to be presumed he has good qualities to balance that, since she values him; and young people must be young, and have their little foolish prepossessions for title, and so forth. To be sure, I should have thought my friend’s daughter above that, of such a good family as she is, and with such good sense as she inherits too. But we have all our foibles, I suppose. And since it is so with Amelia, why do let me see this baronet-swain of hers, and let me try what good I can find out in him, and let me bring myself, if I can, over my prejudices. And then you, my dear madam, so good and kind a mother as you are, will make an effort too on your part; for we must see the girl happy, if it is not out of all sense and reason. And if the man be worthy of her, it is not his fault that he is a sprig of quality; and we must forgive and forget, and give our consent, my dear Mrs. Beaumont.”
“And would you ever give your consent to her marrying Sir John Hunter?” cried Mrs. Beaumont, breathless with amazement, and for a moment thrown off her guard so as to speak quite naturally. The sudden difference in her tone and manner struck even her unsuspicious companion, and he attributed it to displeasure at this last hint.
“Why, my very dear good friend’s wife, forgive me,” said he, “for this interference, and for, as it seems, opposing your opinion about your daughter’s marriage, which no man has a right to do — but if you ask me plump whether I could forgive her for marrying Sir John Hunter, I answer, for I can speak nothing but the truth, I would, if he is a worthy man.”
“I thought,” said Mrs. Beaumont, astonished, “you disinherited your own nephew, because he took a baronet’s title against your will.”
“Bless you! no, my dear madam — that did displease me, to be sure — but that was the least cause of displeasure I had. I let the world fancy and say what they would, rather than bring faults to light. — But no more about that.”
“But did not you take an oath that you would never leave a shilling of your fortune to any sprig of quality?”
“Never! my dearest madam! never,” cried Mr. Palmer, laughing. “Never was such a gander. See what oaths people put into one’s mouth.”
“And what lies the world tells,” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“And believes,” said Mr. Palmer, with a sly smile.
The surprise that Mrs. Beaumont felt was mixed with a strange and rapid confusion of other sentiments, regret for having wasted such a quantity of contrivance and manoeuvring against an imaginary difficulty. All this arose from her too easy belief of secret underhand information.
Through the maze of artifice in which she had involved affairs, she now, with some difficulty, perceived that plain truth would have served her purpose better. But regret for the past was not in the least mixed with any thing like remorse or penitence; on the contrary, she instantly began to consider how she could best profit by her own wrong. She thought she saw two of her favourite objects almost within her reach, Mr. Palmer’s fortune, and the future title for her daughter: no obstacle seemed likely to oppose the accomplishment of her wishes, except Amelia’s own inclinations: these she thought she could readily prevail upon her to give up; for she knew that her daughter was both of a timid and of an affectionate temper; that she had never in any instance withstood, or even disputed, her maternal authority; and that dread of her displeasure had often proved sufficient to make Amelia suppress or sacrifice her own feelings. Combining all these reflections with her wonted rapidity, Mrs. Beaumont determined what her play should now be. She saw, or thought she saw, that she ought, either by gentle or strong means, to lure or intimidate Amelia to her purpose; and that, while she carried on this part of the plot with her daughter in private, she should appear to Mr. Palmer to yield to his persuasions by degrees, to make the young people happy their own way, and to be persuaded reluctantly out of her aversion to sprigs of quality. To be sure, it would be necessary to give fresh explanations and instructions to Sir John Hunter, through his sister, with the new parts that he and she were to act in this domestic drama. As soon as Mrs. Beaumont returned from her airing, therefore, she retired to her own apartment, and wrote a note of explanation, with a proper proportion of sentiment and verbiage, to her dear Albina, begging to see her and Sir John Hunter the very next day. The horse, which had been lamed by the nail, now, of course, had recovered; and it was found by Mrs. Beaumont that she had been misinformed, and that he had been lamed only by sudden cramp. Any excuse she knew would be sufficient, in the present state of affairs, to the young lady, who was more ready to be deceived than even our heroine was disposed to deceive. Indeed, as Machiavel says, “as there are people willing to cheat, there will always be those who are ready to be cheated.”
CHAPTER VII.
“Vous m’enchantez, mais vous m’épouvantez; Ces pieges-là sont-ils bien ajustés? Craignez vous point de vous laisser surprendre Dans les
filets que vos mains savent tendre?” VOLTAIRE.
To prepare Amelia to receive Sir John Hunter properly was Mrs. Beaumont’s next attempt; for as she had represented to Mr. Palmer that her daughter was attached to Sir John, it was necessary that her manner should in some degree accord with this representation, that at least it should not exhibit any symptoms of disapprobation or dislike: whatever coldness or reserve might appear, it would be easy to attribute to bashfulness and dread of Mr. Palmer’s observation. When Amelia was undressing at night, her mother went into her room; and, having dismissed the maid, threw herself into an arm-chair, and exclaimed, half-yawning, “How tired I am! — No wonder, such a long airing as we took to-day. But, my dear Amelia, I could not sleep to-night without telling you how glad I am to find that you are such a favourite with Mr. Palmer.”
“I am glad he likes me,” said Amelia; “I am sure I like him. What a benevolent, excellent man he seems to be!”
“Excellent, excellent — the best creature in the world! — And so interested about you! and so anxious that you should be well and soon established; almost as anxious about it as I am myself.”
“He is very good — and you are very good, mamma; but there is no occasion that I should be soon established, as it is called — is there?”
“That is the regular answer, you know, in these cases, from every young lady that ever was born, in or out of a book within the memory of man. But we will suppose all that to be said prettily on your part, and answered properly on mine: so give me leave to go on to something more to the purpose; and don’t look so alarmed, my love. You know, I am not a hurrying person; you shall take your own time, and every thing shall be done as you like, and the whole shall be kept amongst ourselves entirely; for nothing is so disadvantageous and distressing to a young woman as to have these things talked of in the world long before they take place.”
“But, ma’am! — Surely there is no marriage determined upon for me, without my even knowing it.”
“Determined upon! — Oh dear, no, my darling. You shall decide every thing for yourself.”
“Thank you, mother; now you are kind indeed.”
“Indubitably, my dearest Amelia, I would not decide on any thing without consulting you: for I have the greatest dependence on your prudence and judgment. With a silly romantic girl, who had no discretion, I should certainly think it my duty to do otherwise; and if I saw my daughter following headlong some idle fancy of fifteen, I should interpose my authority at once, and say, It must not be. But I know my Amelia so well, that I am confident she will judge as prudently for herself as I could for her; and indeed, I am persuaded that our opinions will be now, as they almost always are, my sweet girl, the same.”
“I hope so mamma — but — —”
“Well, well, I’ll allow a maidenly but — and you will allow that Sir John Hunter shall be the man at last.”
“Oh, mamma, that can never be,” said Amelia, with much earnestness.
“Never — A young lady’s never, Amelia, I will allow too. Don’t interrupt me, my dear — but give me leave to tell you again, that you shall have your own time — Mr. Palmer has given his consent and approbation.”
“Consent and approbation!” cried Amelia. “And is it come to this? without even consulting me! And is this the way I am left to judge for myself? — Oh, mother! mother! what will become of me?”
Amelia, who had long had experience that it was vain for her to attempt to counteract or oppose any scheme that her mother had planned, sat down at this instant in despair: but even from despair she took courage; and, rising suddenly, exclaimed, “I never can or will marry Sir John Hunter — for I love another person — mother, you know I do — and I will speak truth, and abide by it, let the consequences be what they may.”
“Well, my dear, don’t speak so loud, at all events; for though it may be very proper to speak the truth, it is not necessary that the whole universe should hear it. You speak of another attachment — is it possible that you allude to Captain Walsingham? But Captain Walsingham has never proposed for you, nor even given you any reason to think he would; or if he has, he must have deceived me in the grossest manner.”
“He is incapable of deceiving any body,” said Amelia. “He never gave me any reason to think he would propose for me; nor ever made the slightest attempt to engage my affections. You saw his conduct: it was always uniform. He is incapable of any double or underhand practices.”
“In the warmth of your eulogium on Captain Walsingham, you seem, Amelia, to forget that you reflect, in the most severe manner, upon yourself: for what woman, what young woman especially, who has either delicacy, pride, or prudence, can avow that she loves a man, who has never given, even by her own statement of the matter, the slightest reason to believe that he thinks of her?”
Amelia stood abashed, and for some instants incapable of reply: but at last, approaching her mother, and hiding her face, as she hung over her shoulder, she said, in a low and timid voice, “It was only to my mother — I thought that could not be wrong — and when it was to prevent a greater wrong, the engaging myself to another person.”
“Engaging yourself, my foolish child! but did I not tell you that you should have your own time?”
“But no time, mother, will do.”
“Try, my dear love; that is all I ask of you; and this you cannot, in duty, in kindness, in prudence, or with decency, refuse me.”
“Cannot I?”
“Indeed you cannot. So say not a word more that can lessen the high opinion I have of you; but show me that you have a becoming sense of your own and of female dignity, and that you are not the poor, mean-spirited creature, to pine for a man who disdains you.”
“Disdain! I never saw any disdain. On the contrary, though he never gave me reason to think so, I cannot help fancying — —”
“That he likes you — and yet he never proposed for you! Do not believe it — a man may coquet as well as a woman, and often more; but till he makes his proposal, never, if you have any value for your own happiness or dignity, fancy for a moment that he loves you.”
“But he cannot marry, because he is so poor.”
“True — and if so, what stronger argument can be brought against your thinking of him?”
“I do not think of him — I endeavour not to think of him.”
“That is my own girl! Depend upon it, he thinks not of you. He is all in his profession — prefers it to every woman upon earth. I have heard him say he would not give it up for any consideration. All for glory, you see; nothing for love.”
Amelia sighed. Her mother rose, and kissing her, said, as if she took every thing she wished for granted, “So, my Amelia, I am glad to see you reasonable, and ready to show a spirit that becomes you — Sir John Hunter breakfasts here to-morrow.”
“But,” said Amelia, detaining her mother, who would have left the room, “I cannot encourage Sir John Hunter, for I do not esteem him; therefore I am sure I can never love him.”
“You cannot encourage Sir John Hunter, Amelia?” replied Mrs. Beaumont. “It is extraordinary that this should appear to you an impossibility the very moment the gentleman proposes for you. It was not always so. Allow me to remind you of a ball last year, where you and I met both Sir John Hunter and Captain Walsingham; as I remember, you gave all your attention that evening to Sir John.”
“Oh, mother, I am ashamed of that evening — I regret it more than any evening of my life. I did wrong, very wrong; and bitterly have I suffered for it, as people always do, sooner or later, by deceit. I was afraid that you should see my real feelings; and, to conceal them, I, for the first and last time of my life, acted like a coquette. But if you recollect, dear mother, the very next day I confessed the truth to you. My friend, Miss Walsingham, urged me to have the courage to be sincere.”
“Miss Walsingham! On every occasion I find the secret influence of these Walsinghams operating in my family,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, from a sudden impulse of anger, which threw
her off her guard.
“Surely their influence has always been beneficial to us all. To me, Miss Walsingham’s friendship has been of the greatest service.”
“Yes; by secretly encouraging you, against your mother’s approbation, in a ridiculous passion for a man who neither can nor will marry you.”
“Far from encouraging me, madam, in any thing contrary to your wishes — and far from wishing to do any thing secretly, Miss Walsingham never spoke to me on this subject but once; and that was to advise me strongly not to conceal the truth from you, and not to make use of any artifices or manoeuvres.”
“Possibly, very possibly; but I presume you could conduct yourself properly without Miss Walsingham’s interference or advice.”
“I thought, mamma, you liked Miss Walsingham particularly, and that you wished I should cultivate her friendship.”
“Certainly; I admire Miss Walsingham extremely, and wish to be on the best terms with the family; but I will never permit any one to interfere between me and my children. We should have gone on better without advisers.”
“I am sure her advice and friendship have preserved me from many faults, but never led me into any. I might, from timidity, and from fear of your superior address and abilities, have become insincere and artful; but she has given me strength of mind enough to bear the present evil, and to dare at all hazards to speak the truth.”
“But, my dearest Amelia,” said Mrs. Beaumont, softening her tone, “why so warm? What object can your mother have but your good? Can any Miss Walsingham, or any other friend upon earth, have your interest so much at heart as I have? Why am I so anxious, if it is not from love to you?”
Amelia was touched by her mother’s looks and words of affection, and acknowledged that she had spoken with too much warmth.
Mrs. Beaumont thought she could make advantage of this moment.
“Then, my beloved child, if you are convinced of my affection for you, show at least some confidence in me in return: show some disposition to oblige me. Here is a match I approve; here is an establishment every way suitable.”
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