“Led by Simplicity divine, She pleased, and never tried to shine; She
gave to chance each unschool’d feature, And left her cause to sense and
nature.”--MORE.
Arrived at Walsingham Park, they met Miss Walsingham walking at some
distance from the house.
“Is Captain Walsingham come?” was the first question asked. “No, but
expected every hour.”
That he had not actually arrived was a comfortable reprieve to Mrs.
Beaumont. Breathing more freely, and in refreshed spirits, she prepared
to alight from her carriage, to walk to the house with Miss Walsingham,
as Mr. Palmer proposed. Miss Hunter, who was dressed with uncommon
elegance, remonstrated in favour of her delicate slippers: not that she
named the real object of her solicitude--no; she had not spent so much
time with Mrs. Beaumont, that great mistress of the art of apologizing,
without learning at least the inferior practices of the trade. Of course
she had all the little common arts of excuse ever ready: and instead of
saying that she did not like to walk because she was afraid to spoil her
shoes, she protested she was afraid of the heat, and could not walk so
far. But Mr. Beaumont had jumped out of the carriage, and Mrs.
Beaumont did not wish that he should walk home _tête-à-tête_ with Miss
Walsingham; therefore Miss Hunter’s remonstrances were of no avail.
“My love, you, will not be heated, for our walk is through this charming
shady grove; and if you are tired, here’s my son will give you his arm.”
Satisfied with this arrangement, the young lady, thus supported, found
it possible to walk. Mr. Palmer walked his own pace, looking round at
the beauties of the place, and desiring that nobody might mind him. This
was his way, and Mrs. Beaumont never teased him with talking to him,
when he did not seem to be in the humour for it. She, who made something
of every thing, began to manage the conversation with her other
companions during the walk, so as to favour her views upon the several
parties. Pursuing her principle, that love is in men’s minds generally
independent of esteem, and believing that her son might be rendered
afraid of the superiority of Miss Walsingham’s understanding, Mrs.
Beaumont took treacherous pains to _draw her out_. Starting from chance
seemingly, as she well knew how, a subject of debate, she went from
talking of the late marriage of some neighbouring couple, to discuss
a question on which she believed that Miss Walsingham’s opinion would
differ from that of her son. The point was, whether a wife should
or should not have pin-money. Miss Walsingham thought that a wife’s
accepting it would tend to establish a separate interest between married
people. Mr. Beaumont, on the contrary, was of opinion, that a wife’s
having a separate allowance would prevent disputes. So Miss Hunter
thought, of course, for she had been prepared to be precisely of Mr.
Beaumont’s opinion; but reasons she had none in its support. Indeed, she
said with a pretty simper, she thought that women had nothing to do
with reason or reasoning; that she thought a woman who really loved _any
body_ was always of that person’s opinion; and especially in a wife she
did not see of what use reasoning and _all that_ could be, except to
make a woman contradict, and be odd, and fond of ruling: that for her
part she had no pretensions to any understanding, and if she had ever so
much, she should be glad, she declared upon her honour, to get rid of it
if she could; for what use could it possibly be of to her, when it must
be the husband’s understanding that must always judge and rule, and a
wife ought only to obey, and be always of the opinion of the man of her
choice?--Having thus made her profession of folly in broken sentences,
with pretty confusion and all-becoming graces, she leaned upon Mr.
Beaumont’s arm with a bewitching air of languid delicacy, that solicited
support. Mrs. Beaumont, suppressing a sigh, which, however, she took
care that her son should hear, turned to Miss Walsingham, and, in a
whisper, owned that she could not help loving abilities, and spirit too,
even in her own sex. Then she observed aloud, that much might be urged
on her side of the question with regard to pin-money; for not only, as
Miss Walsingham justly said, it might tend to make a separate interest
between husband and wife, but the wife would probably be kept in total
ignorance of her husband’s affairs; and _that_ in some cases might
be very disadvantageous, as some women are more capable, from their
superior understanding, of managing every thing than most men, indeed,
than any man she could name.
Even under favour of this pretty compliment, which was plainly directed
by a glance of Mrs. Beaumont’s eye, Miss Walsingham would not accept of
this painful pre-eminence. She explained and made it clear, that she had
not any ambition to rule or manage.
“That I can readily believe,” said Mr. Beaumont; “for I have observed,
that it is not always the women who are the most able to decide who are
the most ambitious to govern.”
This observation either was not heard or was not understood by Miss
Hunter, whose whole soul was occupied in settling some fold of her
drapery: but Mr. Beaumont’s speech had its full effect on Mrs. Beaumont,
who bit her lip, and looked reproachfully at her son, as if she thought
this an infringement of his promised truce. A moment afterwards she felt
the imprudence of her own reproachful look, and was sensible that she
would have done better not to have fixed the opinion or feeling in her
son’s mind by noticing it thus with displeasure. Recovering, herself,
for she never was disconcerted for more than half a minute, she passed
on with easy grace to discuss the merits of the heroine of some new
novel--an historic novel, which gave her opportunity of appealing to
Miss Walsingham on some disputed points of history. She dexterously
attempted to draw her _well-informed_ young friend into a display of
literature which might alarm Mr. Beaumont. His education had in some
respects been shamefully neglected; for his mother had calculated that
ignorance would ensure dependence. He had endeavoured to supply, at a
late period of his education, the defects of its commencement; but he
was sensible that he had not supplied all his deficiencies, and he
was apt to feel, with painful impatient sensibility, his inferiority,
whenever literary subjects were introduced. Miss Walsingham, however,
was so perfectly free from all the affectation and vanity of a
bel-esprit, that she did not alarm even those who were inferior to her
in knowledge; their self-complacency, instead of being depressed by the
comparison of their attainments with hers, was insensibly raised, by the
perception that notwithstanding these, she could take pleasure in
their conversation, could appreciate their good sense or originality of
thought, without recurring to the authority of books, or of great names.
In fact, her mind had never been overwhelmed by a wasteful torrent of
learning. That the stream of literature had passed over, it was apparent
only from its fertility. Mrs. Beaumont repented of having drawn her
into conversation. Indeed, our heroine had trusted too much to some
expressions, which had at times dropped from her son, about _learned
ladies_, and certain _conversaziones_. She had concluded that he would
never endure literature in a wife; but she now perceived her mistake.
She discerned it too late; and at this moment she was doubly vexed, for
she saw Miss Hunter _produce_ herself in most disadvantageous contrast
to her rival. In conformity to instructions, which Mrs. Beaumont had
secretly given her, not to show too much sense or learning, because
gentlemen in general, and in particular Mr. Beaumont, disliked it; this
young lady now professed absolute ignorance and incapacity upon all
subjects; and meaning to have an air of pretty childish innocence or
timidity, really made herself appear quite like a simpleton. At the
same time a tinge of ineffectual malice and envy appeared through her
ill-feigned humility. She could give no opinion of any book--oh, she
would not give any judgment for the whole world! She did not think
herself qualified to speak, even if she had read the book, which indeed
she had not, for, really, she never read--she was not a _reading lady_.
As Miss Hunter had no portion of Mrs. Beaumont’s quick penetration, she
did not see the unfavourable impression these words made: certain that
she was following exactly her secret instructions, she was confident of
being in the right line; so on she went, whilst Mrs. Beaumont sighed in
vain; and Miss Walsingham, who now saw and understood her whole play,
almost smiled at the comic of the scene.
“O dear, Mrs. Beaumont,” continued Miss Hunter, “how can you ever
appeal to me about books and those sorts of things, when you know I know
nothing about the matter? For mercy’s sake, never do so any more, for
you know I’ve no taste for those sorts of things. And besides, I own,
even if I could, I should so hate to be thought a blue-stocking--I would
not have the least bit of blue in my stockings for the whole world--I’d
rather have any other colour, black, white, red, green, yellow, any
other colour. So I own I’m not sorry I’m not what they call a genius;
for though genius to be sure’s a very fascinating sort of thing in
gentlemen, yet in women it is not so becoming, I think, especially in
ladies: it does very well on the stage, and for artists, and so on; but
really now, in company, I think it’s an awkward thing, and would make
one look so odd! Now, Mr. Beaumont, I must tell you an anecdote--”
“Stop, my dear Miss Hunter, your ear-ring is coming out. Stay! let me
clasp it, love!” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, determined to stop her in the
career of nonsense, by giving her sensations, since she could not give
her ideas, a new turn.
“Oh, ma’am! ma’am! Oh! my ear! you are killing me, dearest Mrs.
Beaumont! pinching me to death, ma’am!”
“Did I pinch, my dear? It was the hinge of the ear-ring, I suppose.”
“I don’t know what it was; but here’s blood, I declare!”
“My love, I beg you a thousand pardons. How could I be so awkward! But
why could not you for one moment hold your little head still?”
Miss Walsingham applied a patch to the wound.
“Such a pretty ear as it is,” continued Mrs. Beaumont; “I am sure it was
a pity to hurt it.”
“You really did hurt it,” said Mr. Beaumont, in a tone of compassion.
“Oh, horridly!” cried Miss Hunter--“and I, that always faint at the
sight of blood!”
Afraid that the young lady would again spoil her part in the acting, and
lose all the advantages which might result from the combined effect of
the pretty ear and of compassion, Mrs. Beaumont endeavoured to take off
her attention from the wound, by attacking her ear-rings.
“My love,” said she, “don’t wear these ear-rings any more, for I assure
you there is no possibility of shutting or opening them, without hurting
you.”
This expedient, however, nearly proved fatal in its consequences.
Miss Hunter entered most warmly into the defence of her ear-rings; and
appealed to Mr. Beaumont to confirm her decision, that they were the
prettiest and best ear-rings in the world. Unluckily, they did not
particularly suit his fancy, and the young lady, who had, but half an
hour before, professed that she could never be of a different opinion
in any thing from that of the man she loved, now pettishly declared that
she could not and would not give up her taste. Incensed still more by a
bow of submission, but not of conviction, from Mr. Beaumont, she went
on regardless of her dearest Mrs. Beaumont’s frowns, and vehemently
maintained her judgment, quoting, with triumphant volubility,
innumerable precedents of ladies, “who had just bought _the very same_
ear-rings, and whose taste she believed nobody would dispute.”
Mr. Beaumont had seen enough, now and upon many other occasions, to be
convinced that it is not on matters of consequence that ladies are apt
to grow most angry; and he stood confirmed in his belief that those who
in theory professed to have such a humble opinion of their own abilities
that they cannot do or understand any thing useful, are often, in
practice, the most prone to insist upon the infallibility of their taste
and judgment. Mrs. Beaumont, who saw with one glance of her quick
eye what passed at this moment in her son’s mind, sighed, and said to
herself--“How impossible to manage a fool, who ravels, as fast as one
weaves, the web of her fortune!”
Yet though Mrs. Beaumont perceived and acknowledged the impracticability
of managing a fool for a single hour, it was one of the favourite
objects of her manoeuvres to obtain this very fool for a
daughter-in-law, with the hope of governing her for life. So
inconsistent are cunning people, even of the best abilities; so ill do
they calculate the value of their ultimate objects, however ingeniously
they devise their means, or adapt them to their ends.
During this walk Mr. Palmer had taken no part in the conversation; he
had seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, or occupied with observing
the beauties of the place. Tired with her walk--for Mrs. Beaumont always
complained of being fatigued when she was vexed, thus at once concealing
her vexation, and throwing the faults of her mind upon her body--she
stretched herself upon a sofa as soon as she reached the house, nor
did she recover from her exhausted state till she cast her eyes upon a
tamborine, which she knew would afford means of showing Miss Hunter’s
figure and graces to advantage. Slight as this resource may seem,
Mrs. Beaumont well knew that slighter still have often produced great
effects. Soon afterward she observed her son smile repeatedly as he
read a passage in some book that lay upon the table, and she had the
curiosity to take up the book when he turned away. She found that it
was Cumberland’s Memoirs, and saw the following little poem marked with
reiterated lines of approbation:
“Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace?
Go, silly thing, and hide that simp’ring face.
Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;
For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
Nature’s true idiot I prefer to thee.
Why that soft languish?
Why that drawling tone?
Art sick, art sleepy?
Get thee hence: begone.
I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears,
Those flutt’rings, faintings, and unreal fears.
Can they deceive us?
Can such mumm’ries move,
Touch us with pity, or inspire with love?
No, Affectation, vain is all thy art!
Those eyes may wander over ev’ry part;
They’ll never find their passage to the heart.”
“Why, Affectation, why this mock grimace? Go, silly thing, and hide that
simp’ring face. Thy lisping prattle, and thy mincing gait, All thy false
mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who
is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true idiot I prefer to
thee.
Why that soft languish? Why that drawling tone? Art sick, art sleepy?
Get thee hence: begone. I laugh at all thy pretty baby tears, Those
flutt’rings, faintings, and unreal fears.
Can they deceive us? Can such mumm’ries move, Touch us with pity, or
inspire with love? No, Affectation, vain is all thy art! Those eyes may
wander over ev’ry part; They’ll never find their passage to the heart.”
Mrs. Beaumont, the moment she had read these lines, perceived why her
son had smiled. The portrait seemed really to have been drawn from Miss
Hunter, and the lines were so _à propos_ to the scene which had just
passed during the walk, that it was impossible to avoid the application.
Mrs. Beaumont shut the book hastily as her dear Albina approached, for
she was afraid that the young lady would have known her own picture.
So few people, however, even of those much wiser than Miss Hunter, know
themselves, that she need not have been alarmed. But she had no longer
leisure to devote her thoughts to this subject, for Mr. Walsingham,
who had been out riding, had by this time returned; and the moment he
entered the room, Mrs. Beaumont’s attention was directed to him and to
Mr. Palmer. She introduced them to each other, with many expressions of
regret that they should not sooner have met.
Characters that are free from artifice immediately coalesce, as metals
that are perfectly pure can be readily cemented together. Mr. Palmer
and Mr. Walsingham were intimate in half an hour. There was an air of
openness and sincerity about Mr. Walsingham; a freedom and directness in
his conversation, which delighted Mr. Palmer.
“I am heartily glad we have met at last, my good cousin Walsingham,”
said he: “very sorry should I have been to have left the country without
becoming acquainted with you: and now I wish your gallant captain was
arrived. I am to set off the day after to-morrow, and I am sadly afraid
I shall miss seeing him.”
Mr. Walsingham said, that as they expected him every hour, he hoped
Mr. Palmer would persuade Mrs. Beaumont to spend the day at Walsingham
House.
Mrs. Beaumont dared not object. On the contrary, it was now her policy
to pretend the fondest friendship for all the Walsingham family: yet,
all the time, pursuing her plan of preventing Mr. Palmer from discerning
their real characters and superior merit, she managed with great
dexterity to keep the conversation as much as possible upon general
topics, and tried to prevent Mr. Palmer from being much alone with
Mr. Walsingham, for she dreaded their growing intimacy. After dinner,
however, when the ladies retired, the gentlemen drew their chairs close
together, and had a great deal of conversation on interesting subjects.
The most interesting was Captain Walsingham: Mr. Palmer earnestly
desired to hear the particulars of his history.
“And from whom,” said young Beaumont, turning to Mr. Walsingham, “can he
hear them better than from Captain Walsingham’s guardian and friend?”