“Un volto senza senno, Un petto senza core, un cor senz’ alma, Un’ alma
senza fede.” GUARINI.
“Here’s glorious news of Captain Walsingham!” cried young Beaumont; “I
always knew he would distinguish himself if he had an opportunity; and,
thank God! he has had as fine an opportunity as heart could wish. Here,
mother! here, Mr. Palmer, is an account of it in this day’s paper! and
here is a letter from himself, which Mr. Walsingham has just sent me.”
“Oh, give _me_ the letter,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, with affected
eagerness.
“Let me have the paper, then,” cried Mr. Palmer. “Where are my
spectacles?”
“Are there any letters for _me?_” said Sir John Hunter. “Did my
newspapers come? Albina, I desired that they should be forwarded here.
Mrs. Beaumont, can you tell me any thing of _my_ papers?”
“Dear Amelia, how interesting your brother looks when he is pleased!”
Albina whispered, quite loud enough to be heard.
“A most gallant action, by St. George!” exclaimed Mr. Palmer. “These are
the things that keep up the honour of the British navy, and the glory of
Britain.”
“This Spanish ship that Captain Walsingham captured the day after the
engagement is likely to turn out a valuable prize, too,” said Mrs.
Beaumont. “I am vastly glad to find this by his letter, for the money
will be useful to him, he wanted it so much. He does not say how much
his share will come to, does he, Edward?”
“No, ma’am: you see he writes in a great hurry, and he has only time, as
he says, to mention _the needful_.”
“And is not the money _the needful?_” said Sir John Hunter, with a
splenetic smile.
“With Walsingham it is only a secondary consideration,” replied
Beaumont; “honour is Captain Walsingham’s first object. I dare say he
has never yet calculated what his prize-money will be.”
“Right, right!” reiterated Mr. Palmer; “then he is the right sort. Long
may it be before our naval officers think more of prize-money than
of glory! Long may it be before our honest tars turn into calculating
pirates!”
“They never will or can whilst they have such officers as Captain
Walsingham,” said Beaumont.
“By St. George, he seems to be a fine fellow, and you a warm friend,”
said Mr. Palmer. “Ay, ay, the colonel’s own son. But why have I never
seen any of these Walsinghams since I came to the country? Are they
ashamed of being related to me, because I am a merchant?”
“More likely they are too proud to pay court to you because you are
so rich,” said Mr. Beaumont. “But they did come to see you, sir,--the
morning you were out so late, mother, you know.”
“Oh, ay, true--how unfortunate!”
“But have not we horses? have not we carriages? have not we legs?” said
Mr. Palmer. “I’ll go and see these Walsinghams to-morrow, please God I
live so long: for I am proud of my relationship to this young hero;
and I won’t be cast off by good people, let them be as proud as they
will--that’s their fault--but I will not stand on idle ceremony: so, my
good Mistress Beaumont, we will all go in a body, and storm their castle
to-morrow morning.”
“An admirable plan! I like it of all things!” said Mrs. Beaumont. “How
few, even in youth, are so active and enthusiastic as our good friend!
But, my dear Mr. Palmer--”
“But I wish I could see the captain himself. Is there any chance of his
coming home?”
“Home! yes,” said Beaumont: “did you not read his letter, sir? here it
is; he will be at home directly. He says, ‘perhaps a few hours after
this letter reaches you, you’ll see me.’”
“See him! Odds my life, I’m glad of it. And you, my little Amelia,”
said Mr. Palmer, tapping her shoulders as she stood with her back to him
reading the newspaper; “and you, my little silent one, not one word have
I heard from you all this time. Does not some spark of your father’s
spirit kindle within you on hearing of this heroic relation of ours?”
“Luckily for the ladies, sir,” said Sir John Hunter, coming up, as he
thought, to the lady’s assistance--“luckily for young ladies, sir, they
are not called upon to be heroes; and it would be luckier still for
us men, if they never set themselves up for heroines--Ha! ha! ha! Miss
Beaumont,” continued he, “the shower is over; I’ll order the horses out,
that we may have our ride.” Sir John left the room, evidently pleased
with his own wit.
“Amelia, my love,” said Mrs. Beaumont, who drew up also to give
assistance at this critical juncture, “go, this moment, and write a note
to your friend Miss Walsingham, to say that we shall all be with them
early to-morrow: I will send a servant directly, that we may be sure to
meet with them at home this time; you’ll find pen, ink, and paper in my
dressing-room, love.”
Mrs. Beaumont drew Amelia’s arm within hers, and, dictating kindest
messages for the Walsinghams, led her out of the room. Having thus
successfully covered her daughter’s retreat, our skilful manoeuvrer
returned, all self-complacent, to the company. And next, to please
the warm-hearted Mr. Palmer, she seemed to sympathize in his patriotic
enthusiasm for the British navy: she pronounced a panegyric on the
_young hero,_ Captain Walsingham, which made the good old man rub his
hands with exultation, and which irradiated with joy the countenance of
her son. But, alas! Mrs. Beaumont’s endeavours to please, or rather to
dupe all parties, could not, even with her consummate address, always
succeed: though she had an excellent memory, and great presence of mind,
with peculiar quickness both of eye and ear, yet she could not always
register, arrange, and recollect all that was necessary for the various
parts she undertook to act. Scarcely had she finished her eulogium on
Captain Walsingham, when, to her dismay, she saw close behind her Sir
John Hunter, who had entered the room without her perceiving it. He
said not one word; but his clouded brow showed his suspicions, and his
extreme displeasure.
“Mrs. Beaumont,” said he, after some minutes’ silence, “I find I
must have the honour of wishing you a good morning, for I have an
indispensable engagement at home to dinner to-day.”
“I thought, Sir John, you and Amelia were going to ride?”
“Ma’am, Miss Beaumont does not choose to ride--she told me, so this
instant as I passed her on the stairs. Oh! don’t disturb her, I beg--she
is writing to Miss Walsingham--I have the honour to wish you a good
morning, ma’am.”
“Well, if you are determined to go, let me say three words to you in the
music-room, Sir John: though,” added she, in a whisper intended to be
heard by Mr. Palmer, “I know you do not look upon me as your friend,
yet depend upon it I shall treat you and all the world with perfect
candour.”
Sir John, though sulky, could not avoid following the lady; and as soon
as she had shut all the doors and double-doors of the music-room, she
exclaimed, “It is always best to speak openly to one’s friends. Now, my
dear Sir John Hunter, how can you be so childish as to take ill of me
what I really was forced to say, for _your_ interest, about Captain
Walsingham, to Mr. Palmer? You know old Palmer is the oddest, most
self-willed man imaginable! humour and please him I must, the few days
he is with me. You know he goes on Tuesday--that’s decided--Dr. Wheeler
has seen him, has talked to him about his health, and it is absolutely
necessary that he should return to the West Indies. Then he is perfectly
determined to leave all he has to Amelia.”
“Yes, ma’am; but how am I sure of being the better for that?”
interrupted Sir John, whose decided selfishness was a match for Mrs.
Beaumont’s address, because it went without scruple or ceremony straight
to his object; “for, ma’am, you can’t think I’m such a fool as not to
see that Mr. Palmer wishes me at the devil. Miss Beaumont gives me no
encouragement; and you, ma’am, I know, are too good a politician to
offend Mr. Palmer: so, if he declares in favour of this young _hero,_
Captain Walsingham, I may quit the field.”
“But you don’t consider that Mr. Palmer’s young hero has never made any
proposal for Amelia.”
“Pshaw! ma’am--but I know, as well as you do, that he likes her, and
propose he will for her now that he has money.”
“Granting that; you forget that all this takes time, and that Palmer
will be gone to the West Indies before they can bring out their
proposal; and as soon as he is gone, and has left his will, as he means
to do, with me, you and I have the game in our own hands. It is very
extraordinary to me that you do not seem to understand my play, though I
explained the whole to Albina; and I thought she had made you comprehend
the necessity for my _seeming,_ for this one week, to be less your
friend than I could wish, because of your title, and that odd whim of
Palmer, you know: but I am sure we understand one another now.”
“Excuse me,” said the invincible Sir John: “I confess, Mrs. Beaumont,
you have so much more abilities, and _finesse_, and all that sort
of thing, than I have, that I cannot help being afraid of--of not
understanding the business rightly. In business there is nothing like
understanding one another, and going on sure grounds. There has been so
much going backwards and forwards, and explanations and manoeuvres,
that I am not clear how it is; nor do I feel secure even that I have the
honour of your approbation.”
“What! not when I have assured you of it, Sir John, in the most
unequivocal manner?”
It was singular that the only person to whom in this affair Mrs.
Beaumont spoke the real truth should not believe her. Sir John Hunter
continued obstinately suspicious and incredulous. He had just heard that
his uncle Wigram, his rich uncle Wigram, was taken ill, and not likely
to recover. This intelligence had also reached Mrs. Beaumont, and
she was anxious to secure the baronet and the Wigram fortune for her
daughter; but nothing she could say seemed to satisfy him that she was
not double-dealing. At last, to prove to him her sincerity, she gave
him what he required, and what alone, he said, could make his mind
easy, could bring him to make up his mind--_a written assurance_ of her
approbation of his addresses to Amelia. With this he was content; “for,”
said he, “what is written remains, and there can be no misunderstandings
in future, or changing of minds.”
It was agreed between these confidential friends, that Sir John should
depart, _as it were_, displeased; and she begged that he would not
return till Mr. Palmer should have left the country.
Now there was a numerous tribe of _hangers-on_, who were in the habit of
frequenting Beaumont Park, whom Mrs. Beaumont loved to see at her
house; because, besides making her feel her own importance, they were
frequently useful to carry on the subordinate parts of her perpetual
manoeuvres. Among these secondary personages who attended Mrs. Beaumont
abroad to increase her consequence in the eyes of common spectators, and
who at home filled the stage, and added to the bustle and effect, her
chief favourites were Mr. Twigg (the same gentleman who was deputed to
decide upon the belt or the screen) and Captain Lightbody. Mr. Twigg was
the most, elegant flatterer of the two, but Captain Lightbody was
the most assured, and upon the whole made his way the best. He was a
handsome man, had a good address, could tell a good story, sing a good
song, and _make things go off_ well, when there was company; so that he
was a prodigious assistance to the mistress of the house. Then he danced
with the young ladies when they had no other partners; he mounted guard
regularly beside the piano-forte, or the harp, when the ladies were
playing; and at dinner it was always the etiquette for him to sit beside
Miss Beaumont, or Miss Hunter, when the gentlemen guests were not such
as Mrs. Beaumont thought entitled to that honour, or such as she deemed
_safe_ companions. These arrangements imply that Captain Lightbody
thought himself in Mrs. Beaumont’s confidence: and so he was to a
certain degree, just enough to flatter him into doing her high or low
behests. Whenever she had a report to circulate, or to contradict,
Captain Lightbody was put in play; and no man could be better calculated
for this purpose, both from his love of talking, and of locomotion. He
galloped about from place to place, and from one great house to
another; knew all the lords and ladies, and generals and colonels,
and brigade-majors and aides-de-camp, in the land. Could any mortal
be better qualified to fetch and carry news for Mrs. Beaumont?
Besides news, it was his office to carry compliments, and to speed the
intercourse, not perhaps from soul to soul, but from house to house,
which is necessary in a visiting country to keep up the character of
an agreeable neighbour. Did Mrs. Beaumont forget to send a card of
invitation, or neglect to return a visit, Lightbody was to set it to
rights for her, Lightbody, the ready bearer of pretty notes, the maker
always, the fabricator sometimes, of the civilest speeches imaginable.
This expert speechifier, this ever idle, ever busy scamperer, our
heroine dispatched to engage a neighbouring family to pay her a morning
visit the next day, just about the time which was fixed for her going to
see the Walsinghams. The usual caution was given. “Pray, Lightbody, do
not let my name be used; do not let me be mentioned; but take it upon
yourself, and say, as if from yourself, that you have reason to believe
I take it ill that they have not been here lately. And then you can
mention the hour that would be most convenient. But let me have nothing
to do with it. I must not appear in it on any account.”
In consequence of Captain Lightbody’s faithful execution of his secret
instructions, a barouche full of morning visitors drove to the door,
just at the time when Mrs. Beaumont had proposed to set out for
Walsingham House. Mrs. Beaumont, with a well-dissembled look of
vexation, exclaimed, as she looked out of the window at the carriage,
“How provoking! Who can these people be? I hope Martin will say I am not
at home. Ring--ring, Amelia. Oh, it’s too late, they have seen me! and
Martin, stupid creature! has let them in.”
Mr. Palmer was much discomfited, and grew more and more impatient when
these troublesome visitors protracted their stay, and proposed a walk to
see some improvements in the grounds.
“But, my good Mistress Beaumont,” said he, “you know we are engaged to
our cousin Walsingham this morning; and if you will give me leave, I
will go on before you with Mr. Beaumont, and we can say what detains
you.”
Disconcerted by this simple determination of this straight-forward,
plain-spoken old gentleman, Mrs. Beaumont saw that farther delay on her
part would be not only inefficacious, but dangerous. She now was eager
to be relieved from the difficulties which she had herself contrived.
She would not, for any consideration, have trusted Mr. Palmer to pay
this visit without her: therefore, by an able counter-movement, she
extricated herself not only without loss, but with advantage, from this
perilous situation. She made a handsome apology to her visitors for
being obliged to run away from them. “She would leave Amelia to have the
pleasure of showing them the grounds.”
Mrs. Beaumont was irresistible in her arrangements. Amelia, disappointed
and afraid to show how deeply she felt the disappointment, was obliged
to stay to do the honours of Beaumont Park, whilst her mother drove off
rejoicing in half the success, at least, of her stratagem; but even as
a politician she used upon every occasion too much artifice. It was said
of Cardinal Mazarin, he is a great politician, but in all his politics
there is one capital defect--“_C’est qu’il veut toujours tromper_.”
“How tiresome those people were! I thought we never should have got
away from them,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “What possessed them to come this
morning, and to pay such a horrid long visit? Besides, those Duttons, at
all times, are the most stupid creatures upon the face of the earth;
I cannot endure them; so awkward and ill-bred too! and yet of a good
family--who could think it? They are people one must see, but they are
absolutely insufferable.”
“Insufferable!” said Mr. Palmer; “why, my good madam, then you have the
patience of a martyr; for you suffered them so patiently, that I never
should have guessed you suffered at all. I protest I thought they were
friends and favourites of yours, and that you were very glad to see
them.”
“Well, well, ‘tis the way of the world,” continued Mr. Palmer; “this
sort of--what do you call it? double-dealing about visitors, goes on
every where, Madam Beaumont. But how do I know, that when I go away, you
may not be as glad to get rid of me as you were to get away from these
Duttons?” added he, in a tone of forced jocularity. “How do I know,
but that the minute my back is turned, you may not begin to take me to
pieces in my turn, and say, ‘That old Palmer! he was the most tiresome,
humoursome, strange, old-fashioned fellow; I thought we should never
have got rid of him?”
“My dear, dear sir, how can you speak in such a manner?” cried Mrs.
Beaumont, who had made several vain attempts to interrupt this speech.
“You, who are our best friend! is it possible you could suspect? Is
there no difference to be made between friends and common acquaintance?”
“I am sure I hope there is,” said Mr. Palmer, smiling.
There was something so near the truth in Mr. Palmer’s raillery, that
Mrs. Beaumont could not take it with as much easy unconcern as the
occasion required, especially in the presence of her son, who maintained
a provoking silence. Unhappy indeed are those, who cannot, in such
moments of distress, in their own families, and in their nearest
connexions, find any relief from their embarrassments, and who look
round in vain for one to be _responsible_ for their sincerity. Mrs.
Beaumont sat uneasy and almost disconcerted. Mr. Palmer felt for his
snuff-box, his usual consolation; but it was not in his pocket: he
had left it on his table. Now Mrs. Beaumont was relieved, for she had
something to do, and something to say with her wonted politeness: in
spite of all remonstrance from Mr. Palmer, her man Martin was sent back
for the snuff-box; and conjectures about his finding it, and his being
able to overtake them before they arrived at Walsingham house, supplied
conversation for a mile or two.
“Here’s Martin coming back full gallop, I vow,” said Miss Hunter, who
could also talk on this topic.
“Come, come, my good lady,” said Mr. Palmer, (taking the moment when the
young lady had turned her back as she stretched out of the carriage
for the pleasure of seeing Martin gallop)--“Come, come, my good Mrs.
Beaumont, shake hands and be friends, and hang the Duttons! I did not
mean to vex you by what I said. I am not so polite as I should be, I
know, and you perhaps are a little too polite. But that is no great
harm, especially in a woman.”
Martin and the snuff-box came up at this instant; and all was apparently
as well as ever. Yet Mrs. Beaumont, who valued a reputation for
sincerity as much as Chartres valued a reputation for honesty, and
nearly upon the same principle, was seriously vexed that even this
transient light had been let in upon her real character. To such
_accidents_ duplicity is continually subject.