“And gave her words, where oily Flatt’ry lays The pleasing colours of
the art of praise.”--PARNELL.
NOTE FROM MRS. BEAUMONT TO MISS WALSINGHAM.
“I am more grieved than I can express, my dearest Miss Walsingham, by
a cruel _contre-temps_, which must prevent my indulging myself in the
long-promised and long-expected pleasure of being at your _fête de
famille_ on Tuesday, to celebrate your dear father’s birthday. I
trust, however, to your conciliating goodness, my kind young friend, to
represent my distress properly to Mr. Walsingham. Make him sensible, I
conjure you, that my _heart_ is with you all, and assure him that this
is no common apology. Indeed, I never employ such artifices with my
friends: to them, and to you in particular, my dear, I always speak with
perfect frankness and candour. Amelia, with whom, _entre nous_, you
are more a favourite than ever, is so much vexed and mortified by this
disappointment, that I see I shall not be restored to favour till I can
fix a day for going to you: yet when that may be, circumstances, which I
should not feel myself quite justified in mentioning, will not permit me
to decide.
“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.”
“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?”