“And now, as oft in some distempered state, On one nice trick depends
the general fate.”--POPE.
That old politician, the cardinal of Lorraine, used to say, that “a lie
believed but for one hour doth many times in a nation produce effects of
seven years’ continuance.” At this rate what wonderful effects might
our heroine have produced, had she practised in public life, instead of
confining her genius to family politics! The game seemed now in her own
hands. The day, the important day, on which all her accounts with her
son were to be settled; the day when Mr. Palmer’s will was to be
signed, the last day he was to stay in England, arrived. Mr. Beaumont’s
birthday, his coming of age, was of course hailed with every possible
demonstration of joy. The village bells rang, the tenants were invited
to a dinner and a dance, and an ox was to be roasted whole; and the
preparations for rejoicing were heard all over the house. Mr. Palmer’s
benevolent heart was ever ready to take a share in the pleasures of his
fellow-creatures, especially in the festivities of the lower classes. He
appeared this morning in high good humour. Mrs. Beaumont, with a smile
on her lips, yet with a brow of care, was considering how she could make
pleasure subservient to interest, and how she could get _business_ done
in the midst of the amusements of the day. Most auspiciously did her
day of business begin by Mr. Palmer’s declaring to her that his will was
actually made; that with the exception of certain legacies, he had left
his whole fortune to her during her life, with remainder to her son
and daughter. “By this arrangement,” continued he, “I trust I shall
ultimately serve my good friends the Walsinghams, as I wish: for though
I have not seen as much of that family as I should have been glad to
have done, yet the little I have seen convinces me that they are worthy
people.”
“The most worthy people upon earth. You know I have the greatest regard
for them,” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“I am really sorry,” pursued Mr. Palmer, “that I have not been able to
make acquaintance with Captain Walsingham. Mr. Walsingham told me his
whole history yesterday, and it has prepossessed me much in his favour.”
“He is, indeed, a charming, noble-hearted young hero,” said Mrs.
Beaumont; “and I regret, as much as you do, that you cannot see him
before you leave England.”
“However,” continued Mr. Palmer, “as I was saying, the Walsinghams will,
I trust, be the better sooner or later by me; for I think I foresee that
Captain Walsingham, if a certain Spanish lady were out of the question,
would propose for Amelia, and would persuade her to give up this foolish
fancy of hers for that baronet.”
Mrs. Beaumont shook her head, as if she believed this could not possibly
be done.
“Well, well, if it can’t be, it can’t. The girl’s inclination must not
be controlled. I don’t wonder, however, that you are vexed at missing
such a husband for her as young Walsingham. But, my good madam, we
must make the best of it--let the girl marry her baronet. I have left a
legacy of some thousands to Captain Walsingham, as a token of my esteem
for his character; and I am sure, my dear Mrs. Beaumont, his interests
are in good hands when I leave them in yours. In the mean time, I wish
you, as the representative of my late good friend, Colonel Beaumont, to
enjoy all I have during your life.”
Mrs. Beaumont poured forth such a profusion of kind and grateful
expressions, that Mr. Palmer was quite disconcerted. “No more of this,
my dear madam, no more of this. But there was something I was going
to say, that has gone out of my head. Oh, it was, that the Walsinghams
will, I think, stand a good chance of being the better for me in another
way.”
“How?”
“Why you have seen so much more of them than I have--don’t you, my
dear madam, see that Miss Walsingham has made a conquest of your son? I
thought I was remarkably slow at seeing these things, and yet I saw it.”
“Miss Walsingham is a prodigious favourite of mine. But you know Edward
is so young, and men don’t like, now-a-days, to marry young,” said Mrs.
Beaumont.
“Well, let them manage their affairs their own way,” said Mr. Palmer;
“all I wish upon earth is to see them happy, or rather to hear of their
happiness, for I shall not see it you know in Jamaica.”
“Alas!” said Mrs. Beaumont, in a most affectionate tone, and with a sigh
that seemed to come from her heart; “alas! that is such a melancholy
thought.”
Mr. Palmer ended the conversation by inquiring whom he had best ask
to witness his will. Mrs. Beaumont proposed Captain Lightbody and Dr.
Wheeler. The doctor was luckily in the house, for he had been sent for
this morning, to see her poor Amelia, who had caught cold yesterday, and
had a slight feverish complaint.
This was perfectly true. The anxiety that Amelia had suffered
of late--the fear of being forced or ensnared to marry a man she
disliked--apprehensions about the Spanish incognita, and at last the
certainty that Captain Walsingham would not arrive before Mr. Palmer
should have left England, and that consequently the hopes she had formed
from this benevolent friend’s interference were vain--all these things
had overpowered Amelia; she had passed a feverish night, and was really
ill. Mrs. Beaumont at any other time would have been much alarmed; for,
duplicity out of the question, she was a fond mother: but she now was
well contented that her daughter should have a day’s confinement to her
room, for the sake of keeping her safe out of the way. So leaving poor
Amelia to her feverish thoughts, we proceed with the business of the
day.
Dr. Wheeler, Captain Lightbody, and Mr. Twigg witnessed the will; it was
executed, and a copy of it deposited with Mrs. Beaumont. This was one
great point gained. The next object was her jointure. She had employed
her convenient tame man[3], Captain Lightbody, humbly to suggest to her
son, that some increase of jointure would be proper; and she was now in
anxiety to know how these hints, and others which had been made by more
remote means, would operate. As she was waiting to see Mr. Lightbody
in her dressing-room, to hear the result of his _suggestions_, the door
opened.
“Well, Lightbody! come in--what success?”
She stopped short, for it was not Captain Lightbody, it was her son.
Without taking any notice of what she said, he advanced towards her, and
presented a deed.
“You will do me the favour, mother, to accept of this addition to your
jointure,” said he. “It was always my intention to do this, the moment
it should be in my power; and I had flattered myself that you would not
have thought it necessary to suggest to me what I knew I ought to do, or
to hint to me your wishes by any intermediate person.”
Colouring deeply, for it hurt her conscience to be found out, Mrs.
Beaumont was upon the point of disavowing her emissary, but she
recollected that the words which she had used when her son was coming
into the room might have betrayed her. On the other hand, it was not
certain that he had heard them. She hesitated. From the shame of a
disavowal, which would have answered no purpose, but to sink her lower
in her son’s opinion, she was, however, saved by his abrupt sincerity.
“Don’t say any thing more about it, dear mother,” cried he, “but pardon
me the pain I have given you at a time when indeed I wished only to give
pleasure. Promise me, that in future you will let me know your wishes
directly, and from your own lips.”
“Undoubtedly--depend upon it, my dearest son. I am quite overpowered.
The fact was, that I could not, however really and urgently necessary
it was to me, bring myself to mention with my own lips what, as a direct
request from me, I knew you could not and would not refuse, however
inconvenient it might be to you to comply. On this account, and on this
account only, I wished you not to know my wants from myself, but from an
intermediate friend.”
“Friend!”--Mr. Beaumont could not help repeating with an emphasis of
disdain.
“_Friend_, I only said by courtesy; but I wished you to know my wants
from an intermediate person, that you might not feel yourself in any way
bound, or called upon, and that the refusal might be implied and tacit,
as it were, so that it could lead to no unpleasant feelings between us.”
“Ah! my dear mother,” said Mr. Beaumont, “I have not your knowledge
of the world, or of human nature; but from all I have heard, seen,
and felt, I am convinced that more unpleasant feelings are created in
families, by these false delicacies, and managements, and hints, and
go-between friends by courtesy, than ever would have been caused by the
parties speaking directly to one another, and telling the plain truth
about their thoughts and wishes. Forgive me if I speak too plainly at
this moment; as we are to live together, I hope, many years, it may
spare us many an unhappy hour.”
Mrs. Beaumont wiped her eyes. Her son found it difficult to go on, and
yet, upon his own principles, it was right to proceed.
“Amelia, ma’am! I find she is ill this morning.”
“Yes--poor child!”
“I hope, mother--”
“Since,” interrupted Mrs. Beaumont, “my dear son wishes always to
hear from me the plain and direct truth, I must tell him, that, as the
guardian of his sister, I think myself accountable to no one for
my conduct with respect to her; and that I should look upon any
interference as an unkind and unjustifiable doubt of my affection for my
daughter. Rest satisfied with this assurance, that her happiness is, in
all I do, my first object; and as I have told her a thousand times, no
force shall be put on her inclinations.”
“I have no more to say, no more to ask,” said Mr. Beaumont. “This is a
distinct, positive declaration, in which I will confide, and, in future,
not suffer appearances to alarm me. A mother would not keep the word of
promise to the ear, and break it to the hope.”
Mrs. Beaumont, feeling herself change countenance, made an attempt to
blow her nose, and succeeded in hiding her face with her handkerchief.
“With respect to myself,” continued Mr. Beaumont, “I should also say,
lest you should be in any doubt concerning my sentiments, that though I
have complied with your request to delay for a few weeks--”
“_That_ you need not repeat, my dear,” interrupted Mrs. Beaumont. “I
understand all that perfectly.”
“Then at the end of this month I shall--and, I hope, with your entire
approbation, propose for Miss Walsingham.”
“Time enough,” said Mrs. Beaumont, smiling, and tapping her son
playfully on the shoulder, “time enough to talk of that when the end of
the month comes. How often have I seen young men like you change their
minds, and fall in and out of love in the course of one short month!
At any rate,” continued Mrs. Beaumont, “let us pass to the order of the
day; for we have time enough to settle other matters; but the order of
the day--a tiresome one, I confess--is to settle accounts.”
“I am ready--”
“So am I.”
“Then let us go with the accounts to Mr. Palmer, who is also ready, I am
sure.”
“But, before we go,” said Mrs. Beaumont, whispering, “let us settle what
is to be said about the debts--_your_ debts you know. I fancy you’ll
agree with me, that the less is said about this the better; and that, in
short, the best will be to say nothing.”
“Why so, madam? Surely you don’t think I mean to conceal my debts from
our friend Mr. Palmer, at the very moment when I profess to tell him all
my affairs, and to settle accounts with him and you, as my guardians!”
“With him? But he has never acted, you know, as one of the guardians;
therefore you are not called upon to settle accounts with him.”
“Then why, ma’am, did you urge him to come down from London, to be
present at the settlement of these accounts?”
“As a compliment, and because I wish him to be present, as your father’s
friend; but it is by no means essential that he should know every
detail.”
“I will do whichever you please, ma’am; I will either settle accounts
with or without him.”
“Oh! _with_ him, that is, in his presence, to be sure.”
“Then he must know the whole.”
“Why so? Your having contracted such debts will alter his opinion of
your prudence and of mine, and may, perhaps, essentially alter--alter--”
“His will? Be it so; that is the worst that can happen. As far as I am
concerned, I would rather a thousand times it were so, than deceive him
into a better opinion of me than I deserve.”
“Nobly said! so like yourself, and like every thing I could wish: but,
forgive me, if I did for you, what indeed I would not wish you to do for
yourself. I have already told Mr. Palmer that you had no embarrassments;
therefore, you cannot, and I am sure would not, unsay what I have said.”
Mr. Beaumont stood fixed in astonishment.
“But why, mother, did not you tell him the whole?”
“My dear love, delicacy prevented me. He offered to relieve you from
any embarrassments, if you had any; but I, having too much delicacy and
pride to let my son put himself under pecuniary obligations, hastily
answered, that you had no debts; for there was no other reply to be
made, without offending poor Palmer, and hurting his generous feelings,
which I would not do for the universe: and I considered too, that as all
Palmer’s fortune will come to us in the end--”
“Well, ma’am,” interrupted Mr. Beaumont, impatient of all these glosses
and excuses, “the plain state of the case is, that I cannot contradict
what my mother has said; therefore I will not settle accounts at all
with Mr. Palmer.”
“And what excuse _can_ I make to him, after sending for him express from
London?”
“That I must leave to you, mother.”
“And what reason _can_ I give for thus withdrawing our family-confidence
from such an old friend, and at the very moment when he is doing so much
for us all?”
“That I must leave to you, mother. I withdraw no confidence. I have
pretended none--I will break none.”
“Good Heavens! was not all I did and said for _your_ interest?”
“Nothing can be for my interest that is not for my honour, and for
yours, mother. But let us never go over the business again. Now to the
order of the day.”
“My dear, dear son,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “don’t speak so roughly, so
cruelly to me.”
Suddenly softened, by seeing the tears standing in his mother’s eyes, he
besought her pardon for the bluntness of his manner, and expressed his
entire belief in her affection and zeal for his interests; but, on
the main point, that he would not deceive Mr. Palmer, or directly or
indirectly assert a falsehood, Mr. Beaumont was immoveable. In the midst
of her entreaties a message came from Mr. Palmer, to say that he was
waiting for the accounts, which Mrs. Beaumont wished to settle. “Well,”
said she, much perplexed, “well, come down to him--come, for it is
impossible for me to find any excuse after sending for him from
London; he would think there was something worse than there really is.
Stay--I’ll go down first, and sound him; and if it won’t do without the
accounts, do you come when I ring the bell; then all I have for it is
to run my chance. Perhaps he may never recollect what passed about your
debts, for the dear good old soul has not the best memory in the world;
and if he should obstinately remember, why, after all, it’s only a bit
of false delicacy, and a white lie for a friend and a son, and we can
colour it.”
Down went Mrs. Beaumont to sound Mr. Palmer; but though much might
be expected from her address, yet she found it unequal to the task of
convincing this gentleman’s plain good sense that it would fatigue him
to see those accounts, which he came so many miles on purpose to
settle. Perceiving him begin to waken to the suspicion that she had some
interest in suppressing the accounts, and hearing him, in an altered
tone, ask, “Madam, is there any mystery in these accounts, that I must
not see them?” she instantly rang the bell, and answered, “Oh, none;
none in the world; only we thought--that is, I feared it might fatigue
you too much, my dear friend, just the day before your journey, and I
was unwilling to lose so many hours of your good company; but since you
are so very kind--here’s my son and the papers.”