“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.”
“But why, mamma, must I be married?” interrupted Amelia. “I will not
think, at least I will try not to think, of any one of whom you do not
approve; but I cannot marry any other man while I feel such a partiality
for--. So, dear mother, pray do not let Sir John Hunter come here any
more on my account. It is not necessary that I should marry.”
“It is necessary, however,” said Mrs. Beaumont, withdrawing her hand
haughtily, and darting a look of contempt and anger upon her daughter,
“it is necessary, however, that I should be mistress in my own house,
and that I should invite here whomever I please. And it is necessary
that you should receive them without airs, and with politeness. On this,
observe, I insist, and will be obeyed.”
Mrs. Beaumont would receive no reply, but left the room seemingly in
great displeasure: but even half her anger was affected, to intimidate
this gentle girl.
Sir John Hunter and his sister arrived to breakfast. Mrs. Beaumont
played her part admirably; so that she seemed to Mr. Palmer only to
be enduring Sir John from consideration for her daughter, and from
compliance with Mr. Palmer’s own request that she would try what could
be done to make the young people happy; yet she, with infinite address,
_drew Sir John out_, and dexterously turned every thing he said into
what she thought would please Mr. Palmer, though all the time she seemed
to be misunderstanding or confuting him. Mr. Palmer’s attention, which
was generally fixed exclusively on one object at a time, had ample
occupation in studying Sir John, whom he examined, for Amelia’s sake,
with all the honest penetration which he possessed. Towards Amelia
herself he scarcely ever looked; for, without any refinement of
delicacy, he had sufficient feeling and sense to avoid what he thought
would embarrass a young lady. Amelia’s silence and reserve appeared
to him, therefore, as her politic mother had foreseen, just what was
natural and proper. He had been told that she was attached to Sir John
Hunter; and the idea of doubting the truth of what Mrs. Beaumont had
asserted could not enter his confiding mind.
In the mean time, our heroine, to whom the conduct of a double intrigue
was by no means embarrassing, did not neglect the affairs of her dear
Albina: she had found time before breakfast, as she met Miss Hunter
getting out of her carriage, to make herself sure that her notes of
explanation had been understood; and she now, by a multitude of scarcely
perceptible inuendoes, and seemingly suppressed looks of pity, contrived
to carry on the representation she had made to her son of this damsel’s
helpless and lovelorn state. Indeed, the young lady appeared as much in
love as could have been desired for stage effect, and rather more than
was necessary for propriety. All Mrs. Beaumont’s art, therefore, was
exerted to throw a veil of becoming delicacy over what might have been
too glaring, by hiding half to improve the whole. Where there was
any want of management on the part of her young coadjutrix, she, with
exquisite skill, made advantage even of these errors by look? and sighs,
that implied almost as emphatically as words could have said to her
son--“You see what I told you is too true. The simple creature has not
art enough to conceal her passion. She is undone in the eyes of the
world, if you do not confirm what report has said.”
This she left to work its natural effect upon the vanity of man. And in
the midst of these multiplied manoeuvres, Mrs. Beaumont sat with ease
and unconcern, sometimes talking to one, sometimes to another; so that
a stranger would have thought her a party uninterested in all that was
going forward, and might have wondered at her blindness or indifference.
But, alas! notwithstanding her utmost art, she failed this day in
turning and twisting Sir John Hunter’s conversation and character so as
to make them agreeable to Mr. Palmer. This she knew by his retiring
at an early hour at night, as he sometimes did when company was not
agreeable to him. His age gave him this privilege. Mrs. Beaumont
followed, to inquire if he would not wish to _take something_ before he
went to rest.
“By St. George, Madam Beaumont, you are right,” said Mr. Palmer,
“you are right, in not liking this baronet. I’m tired of him--sick of
him--can’t like him!--sorry for it, since Amelia likes him. But what can
a daughter of Colonel Beaumont find in this man to be pleased with? He
is a baronet, to be sure, but that is all. Tell me, my good madam, what
it is the girl likes in him?”
Mrs. Beaumont could only answer by an equivocal smile, and a shrug, that
seemed to say--there’s no accounting for these things.
“But, my dear madam,” pursued Mr. Palmer, “the man is neither handsome
nor young: he is old enough for her father, though he gives himself the
airs of a youngster; and his manners are--I can allow for
fashionable manners. But, madam, it is his character I don’t
like--selfish--cold--designing--not a generous thought, not a good
feeling about him. You are right, madam, quite right. In all his
conversation such meanness, and even in what he means for wit, such
a contempt of what is fair and honourable! Now that fellow does not
believe that such a thing as virtue or patriotism, honour or friendship,
exists. The jackanapes!--and as for love! why, madam, I’m convinced he
is no more in love with the girl than I am, nor so much, ma’am, nor half
so much!--does not feel her merit, does not value her accomplishments,
does not Madam! madam! he is thinking of nothing but himself, and her
fortune--fortune! fortune! fortune! that’s all. The man’s a miser.
Madam, they that know no better fancy that there are none but old
misers; but I can tell them there are young misers, and middle-aged
misers, and misers of all ages. They say such a man can’t be a
miser, because he is a spendthrift; but, madam, you know a man can be
both--yes, and that’s what many of your young men of fashion are, and
what, I’ll engage, this fellow is. And can Amelia like him? my poor
child! and does she think he loves her? my poor, poor child! how can she
be so blind? but love is always blind, they say. I’ve a great mind to
take her to task, and ask her, between ourselves, what it is she likes
in her baronet.”
“Oh, my dear sir! she would sink to the centre of the earth if you were
to speak. For Heaven’s sake, don’t take her to task, foolish as she is;
besides, she would be so angry with me for telling you.”
“Angry? the gipsy! Am not I her godfather and her guardian? though I
could not act, because I was abroad, yet her guardian I was left by
her father, and love her too as well as I should a daughter of her
father’s--and she to have secrets, and mysteries! that would be worse
than all the rest, for mysteries are what I abhor. Madam, wherever there
are secrets and mysteries in a family, take my word for it, there is
somethings wrong.”
“True, my dear sir; but Amelia has no idea of mysteries or art. I only
meant that young girls, you know, will be ashamed on these occasions,
and we must make allowances. So do not speak to her, I conjure you.”
“Well, madam, you are her mother, and must know best. I have only her
interest at heart: but I won’t speak to her, since it will so distress
her. But what shall be done about this lover? You are quite right about
him, and I have not a word more to say.”
“But I declare I think you judge him too harshly. Though I am not
inclined to be his friend, yet I must do him the justice to say, he has
more good qualities than you allow, or rather than you have seen yet. He
is passionately fond of Amelia. Oh, there you’re wrong, quite wrong; he
is passionately in love, whatever he may pretend to the contrary.”
“Pretend! and why should the puppy pretend not to be in love?”
“Pride, pride and fashion. Young men are so governed by fashion, and so
afraid of ridicule. There’s a set of _fashionables_ now, with whom love
is a _bore, _you know.”
“I know! no, indeed, I know no such thing,” said Mr. Palmer. “But this
I know, that I hate pretences of all sorts; and if the man is in love, I
should, for my part, like him the better for showing it.”
“So he will, when you know him a little better. You are quite a
stranger, and he is bashful.”
“Bashful! Never saw so confident a man in any country.”
“But he is shy under all that.”
“Under! But I don’t like characters where every thing is under something
different from what appears at top.”
“Well, take a day or two more to study him. Though I am his enemy, I
must deal fairly by him, for poor Amelia’s sake.”
“You are a good mother, madam, an indulgent mother, and I honour
and love you for it. I’ll follow your example, and bear with this
spendthrift-miser-coxcomb sprig of quality for a day or two more, and
try to like him, for Amelia’s sake. But, if he’s not worthy of her, he
sha’n’t have her, by St. George, he shall not--shall he, madam?”
“Oh, no, no; good night, my good sir.”
What the manoeuvres of the next day might have effected, and how far Sir
John Hunter profited by the new instructions which were given to him in
consequence of this conversation, can never be accurately ascertained,
because the whole united plan of operations was disturbed by a new and
unforeseen event.