_“A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.”_
To the settlement of accounts they sat down in due form; and it so
happened, that though this dear good old soul had not the best memory
in the world, yet he had an obstinate recollection of every word Mrs.
Beaumont had said about her son’s having no debts or embarrassments.
And great and unmanageable was his astonishment, when the truth came
to light. “It is not,” said he, turning to Mr. Beaumont, “that I am
astonished at your having debts; I am sorry for that, to be sure;
but young men are often a little extravagant or so, and I dare
say--particularly as you are so candid and make no excuses about it--I
dare say you will be more prudent in future, and give up the race-horses
as you promise. But--why did not Madam Beaumont tell me the truth? Why
make a mystery, when I wanted nothing but to serve my friends? It was
not using me well--it was not using yourself well. Madam, madam, I am
vexed to the heart, and would not for a thousand pounds--ay, fool as I
am, not for ten thousand pounds, this had happened to me from my good
friend the colonel’s widow--a man that would as soon have cut his hand
off. Oh, madam! Madam Beaumont! you have struck me a hard blow at my
time of life. Any thing but this I could have borne; but to have one’s
confidence and old friendships shaken at my time of life!”
Mrs. Beaumont was, in her turn, in unfeigned astonishment; for Mr.
Palmer took the matter more seriously, and seemed more hurt by this
discovery of a trifling deviation from truth, than she had foreseen, or
than she could have conceived to be possible, in a case where neither
his interest nor any one of his passions was concerned. It was in
vain that she palliated and explained, and talked of delicacy, and
generosity, and pride, and maternal feelings, and the feelings of a
friend, and all manner of fine and double-refined sentiments; still
Mr. Palmer’s sturdy plain sense could not be made to comprehend that a
falsehood is not a falsehood, or that deceiving a friend is using him
well. Her son suffered for her, as his countenance and his painful and
abashed silence plainly showed.
“And does not even my son say any thing for me? Is this friendly?” said
she, unable to enter into his feelings, and thinking that the part of
a friend was to make apologies, right or wrong.--Mr. Palmer shook hands
with Mr. Beaumont, and, without uttering a syllable, they understood one
another perfectly. Mr. Beaumont left the room; and Mrs. Beaumont burst
into tears. Mr. Palmer, with great good-nature, tried to assuage that
shame and compunction which he imagined that she felt. He observed,
that, to be sure, she must feel mortified and vexed with herself, but
that he was persuaded nothing but some mistaken notion of delicacy could
have led her to do what her principles must condemn. Immediately she
said all that she saw would please Mr. Palmer; and following the lead
of his mind, she at last confirmed him in the opinion, that this was an
accidental not an habitual deviation from truth. His confidence in her
was broken, but not utterly destroyed.
“As to the debt,” resumed Mr. Palmer, “do not let that give you a
moment’s concern; I will put that out of the question in a few minutes.
My share in the cargo of the Anne, which I see is just safely arrived in
the Downs, will more than pay this debt. Your son shall enter upon his
estate unencumbered. No, no--don’t thank me; I won’t cheat you of your
thanks; it is your son must thank me for this. I do it on his account.
I like the young man. There is an ingenuousness, an honourable frankness
about him, that I love. Instead of his bond for the money, I shall
ask his promise never to have any thing more to do with race-horses or
Newmarket; and his promise I shall think as good as if it were his bond.
Now I am not throwing money away; I’m not doing an idle ostentatious
thing, but one that may, and I hope will, be essentially useful. For,
look you here, my good--look here, Mrs. Beaumont: a youth who finds
himself encumbered with debt on coming to his estate is apt to think of
freeing himself by marrying a fortune instead of a woman; now instead of
freeing a man, this fetters him for life: and what sort of a friend must
that be, who, if he could prevent it, would let this be done for a few
thousand pounds? So I’ll go before I take another pinch of snuff, and
draw him an order upon the cargo of the Anne, lest I should forget it
in the hurry of packing and taking leave, and all those uncomfortable
things.”
He left _Madam_ Beaumont to her feelings, or her reflections; and, in
a few minutes, with an order for the money in his hand, went over
the house in search of his young friend. Mr. Beaumont came out of his
sister’s room on hearing himself called.
“Here,” said Mr. Palmer, “is a little business for you to do. Read this
order over; see that it is right, and endorse it--mind--and never let
me hear one word more about it--only by way of acknowledgment--ask your
mother what you are to give me. But don’t read it till you are out of my
sight--Is Amelia up? Can I see her?”
“Yes; up and in her dressing-room. Do, dear sir, go in and see her, for
my mother says she is too feverish to leave her room to-day; but I am
sure that it will make her ten times worse to be prevented from seeing
you the last day you are with us.”
“Does the little gipsy then care so much for me?--that’s fair; for I
am her friend, and will prove it to her, by giving up my own fancies to
hers: so trust me with her, _tête-à-tête_,--young gentleman; go off, if
you please, and do your own business.”
Mr. Palmer knocked at Amelia’s door, and fancying he heard an answer of
admittance, went in.
“Oh, Mr. Palmer, my good Mr. Palmer, is it you?”
“Yes; but you seem not above half to know whether you are glad or sorry
to see your good Mr. Palmer; for while you hold out your hand, you turn
away your face from me.--Dear, dear! what a burning hand, and how the
pulse goes and flutters! What does Dr. Wheeler say to this? I am a bit
of a physician myself--let me look at you. What’s this? eyes as red
as ferret’s--begging your eyes’ pardon, young lady--What’s this about?
Come,” said he, drawing a chair and sitting down close beside her, “no
mysteries--no mysteries--I hate mysteries--besides, we have not time for
them. Consider, I go to-morrow, and have all my shirts to pack up: ay,
smile, lady, as your father used to do; and open your whole heart to me,
as he always did. Consider me as an old friend.”
“I do consider you as a sincere, excellent friend,” said Amelia; “but--”
Amelia knew that she could not explain herself without disobeying, and
perhaps betraying, her mother.
“No _buts_,” said Mr. Palmer, taking hold of her hand. “Come, my little
Amelia, before you have put that ring on and off your pretty finger
fifty times more, tell me whom you would wish to put a ring on this
finger for life?”
“Ah! that is the thing _I cannot_ tell you!” said Amelia. “Were I alone
concerned, I would tell you every thing; but--ask me no more, I cannot
tell you the whole truth.”
“Then there’s something wrong somewhere or other. Whenever people tell
me they cannot speak the truth, I always say, then there’s something
wrong. Give me leave, Amelia, to ask--”
“Don’t question me,” said Amelia: “talk to my mother. I don’t know how I
ought to answer you.”
“_Not know how!_ ‘Fore George! this is strange! A strange house,
where one can’t get at the simplest truth without a world of
difficulty--mother and daughter all alike; not one of ‘em but the son
can, for the soul of ‘em, give a plain answer to a plain question. _Not
know how!_ as if it was a science to tell the truth. Not know how! as
if a person could not talk to me, honest old Richard Palmer,
without _knowing how!_ as if it was how to baffle a lawyer on a
cross-examination--_Not know how_ to answer one’s own friend! Ah! this
is not the way your father and I used to go on, Miss Beaumont. Nay, nay,
don’t cry now, or that will finish oversetting the little temper I have
left, for I can’t bear to see a woman cry, especially a young woman like
you; it breaks my heart, old as it is, and fool that I am, that ought
to know your sex better by this time than to let a few tears drown my
common sense. Well, young lady, be that as it may, since you won’t tell
me your mind, I must tell you your mind, for I happen to know it--Yes, I
do--your mother bid me spare your delicacy, and I would, but that I have
not time; besides, I don’t understand, nor see what good is got, but
a great deal of mischief, by these cursed new-fashioned delicacies:
wherefore, in plain English, I tell you, I don’t like Sir John Hunter,
and I do like Captain Walsingham; and I did wish you married to Captain
Walsingham--you need not start so, for I say _did_--I don’t wish it now;
for since your heart is set upon Sir John Hunter, God forbid I should
want to give Captain Walsingham a wife without a heart. So I have only
to add, that notwithstanding my own fancy or judgment, I have done my
best to persuade your mother to let you have the man, or the baronet, of
your choice. I will go farther: I’ll make it a point with her, and bring
you both together; for there’s no other way, I see, of understanding
you; and get a promise of her consent; and then I hope I shall leave you
all satisfied, and without any mysteries. And, in the mean time,” added
Mr. Palmer, taking out of his coat pocket a morocco leather case, and
throwing it down on the table before Amelia, “every body should be made
happy their own way: there are some diamonds for Lady Hunter, and God
bless you.”
“Oh, sir, stay!” cried Amelia, rising eagerly; “dear, good Mr. Palmer,
keep your diamonds, and leave me your esteem and love.”
“That I can’t, unless you speak openly to me. It is out of nature. Don’t
kneel--don’t. God bless you! young lady, you have my pity; for indeed,”
turning and looking at her, “you seem very miserable, and look very
sincere.”
“If my mother was here!--I _must_ see my mother,” exclaimed Amelia.
“Where’s the difficulty? I’ll go for her this instant,” said Mr. Palmer,
who was not a man to let a romance trail on to six volumes for want of
going six yards; or for want of somebody’s coming into a room at the
right minute for explanation; or from some of those trivial causes by
which adepts contrive to delude us at the very moment of expectation.
Whilst Mr. Palmer was going for Mrs. Beaumont, Amelia waited in terrible
anxiety. The door was open; and as she looked into the gallery which
led to her room, she saw Mr. Palmer and her mother as they came along,
talking together. Knowing every symptom of suppressed passion in her
mother’s countenance, she was quite terrified, by indications which
passed unnoticed by Mr. Palmer. As her mother approached, Amelia hid
her face in her hands for a moment, but gaining courage from the
consciousness of integrity, and from a determination to act openly,
she looked up; and, rising with dignity, said, in a gentle but firm
voice--“Mother, I hope you will not think that there is any impropriety
in my speaking to our friend, Mr. Palmer, with the same openness with
which I have always spoken to you?”
“My dear child,” interrupted Mrs. Beaumont, embracing Amelia with a
sudden change of manner and countenance, “my sweet child, I have tried
you to the utmost; forgive me; all your trials now are over, and you
must allow me the pleasure of telling our excellent friend, Mr. Palmer,
what I know will delight him almost as much as it delights me--that the
choice of Amelia’s heart, Mr. Palmer, is worthy of her, just what we all
wished.”
“Captain Walsingham?” exclaimed Mr. Palmer, with joyful astonishment.
“Sit down, my love,” said Mrs. Beaumont, seating Amelia, who, from the
surprise at this sudden change in her mother, and from the confusion of
feelings which overwhelmed her at this moment, was near fainting: “we
are too much for her, I have been too abrupt,” continued Mrs. Beaumont:
“Open the window, will you, my good sir? and,” whispering, “let us not
say any more to her at present; you see it won’t do.”
“I am well, quite well again, now,” said Amelia, exerting herself.
“Don’t leave, don’t forsake me, Mr. Palmer; pray don’t go,” holding out
her hand to Mr. Palmer.
“My dear Amelia,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “don’t talk, don’t exert yourself;
pray lie still on the sofa.”
“Her colour is come back; she looks like herself again,” said Mr.
Palmer, seating himself beside her, regardless of Mrs. Beaumont’s
prohibitory looks. “Since my little Amelia wished me to stay, I’ll not
go. So, my child--but I won’t hurry you--only want one sign of the head
to confirm the truth of what your mother has just told me, for nobody
can tell what passes in a young lady’s heart but herself. So then, it
is not that sprig of quality, that selfish spendthrift, that Sir John
Hunter, who has your heart--hey?”
“No, no, no,” answered Amelia; “I never did, I never could like such a
man!”
“Why, I thought not--I thought it was impossible; but--”
Mrs. Beaumont, alarmed beyond conception, suddenly put her hand before
Mr. Palmer’s mouth, to prevent him from finishing his sentence, and
exposing the whole of her shameful duplicity to her daughter.
“Absolutely I must, and do hereby interpose my maternal authority, and
forbid all agitating explanations whilst Amelia is in her present state.
Dr. Wheeler says she is terribly feverish. Come, Mr. Palmer, I must
carry you off by force, and from me you shall have all the explanations
and all the satisfaction you can require.”
“Well,” said Mr. Palmer, “good bye for the present, my little Amelia,
my darling little Amelia! I am so delighted to find that Captain
Walsingham’s the man, and so glad you have no mysteries: be well, be
well soon. I am so pleased, so happy, that I am as unruly as a child,
and as easily managed. You see, how I let myself be turned out of the
room.”
“Not turned out, only carried out,” said Mrs. Beaumont, who never, even
in the most imminent perils, lost her polite presence of mind. Having
thus carried off Mr. Palmer, she was in hopes that, in the joyful
confusion of his mind, he would he easily satisfied with any plausible
explanation. Therefore she dexterously fixed his attention on the
future, and adverted as slightly as possible to the past.
“Now, my good sir, congratulate me,” said she, “on the prospect I have
of happiness in such a son-in-law as Captain Walsingham, if it be indeed
true that Captain Walsingham is really attached to Amelia. But, on the
other hand, what shall we do if there is any truth in the story of the
Spanish lady? Oh, there’s the difficulty! Between hope and fear, I am in
such a distracted state at this moment, I hardly know what I say. What
shall we do about the Spanish lady?”
“Do, my dear madam! we can do nothing at all in that case: but I will
hope the best, and you’ll see that he will prove a constant man at last.
In the mean time, how was all that about Sir John Hunter, and what are
you to do with him?”
“Leave that to me; I will settle all that,” cried Mrs. Beaumont.
“But I hope the poor man, though I don’t like him, has not been jilted?”
“No, by no means; Amelia’s incapable of that. You know she told you just
now that she never liked him.”
“Ay; but I think, madam, you told me, that she _did_,” said Mr. Palmer,
sticking to his point with a decided plainness, which quite disconcerted
Mrs. Beaumont.
“It was all a mistake,” said she, “quite a mistake; and I am sure you
rejoice with me that it was so: and, as to the rest--past blunders, like
past misfortunes, are good for nothing but to be forgotten.”
Observing that Mr. Palmer looked dissatisfied, Mrs. Beaumont continued
apologizing. “I confess you have to all appearance some cause to be
angry with me,” said she: “but now only hear me. Taking the blame upon
myself, let me candidly tell you the whole truth, and all my reasons,
foolish perhaps as they were. Captain Walsingham behaved so honourably,
and had such command over his feelings, that I, who am really the most
credulous creature in the world, was so completely deceived, that I
fancied he never had a thought of Amelia, and that he never would think
of her; and I own this roused both my pride and my prudence for my
daughter; and I certainly thought it my duty, as her mother, to do
every thing in my power to discourage in her young and innocent heart
a hopeless passion. It was but within these few hours that I have
been undeceived by you as to his sentiments. That, of course, made an
immediate change, as you have seen, in my measures; for such is my high
opinion of the young man, and indeed my desire to be connected with the
Walsinghams is so great, that even whilst I am in total ignorance of
what the amount or value may be of this prize that he has taken, and
even whilst I am in doubt concerning this Spanish incognita, I have not
hesitated to declare, perhaps imprudently, to Amelia, as you have just
heard, my full approbation of the choice of her heart.”
“Hum!--well--hey!--How’s this?” said Mr. Palmer to himself, as he tried
to believe and to be satisfied with this apology. “Madam,” said he
aloud to Mrs. Beaumont, “I comprehend that it might not be prudent to
encourage Amelia’s partiality for Captain Walsingham till you were
sure of the young man’s sentiments; but, excuse me, I am a very slow,
unpractised man in these matters; I don’t yet understand why you told
_me_ that she was in love with Sir John Hunter?”
Mrs. Beaumont, being _somewhat in the habit of self-contradiction_, was
seldom unprovided with a concordance of excuses; but at this unlucky
moment she was found unprepared. Hesitating she stood, all subtle as she
was, deprived of ready wit, and actually abashed in the presence of a
plain good man.
“I candidly confess, my dear sir,” said she, apologizing to Mr. Palmer
as he walked up and down, “that my delicacy or pride,--call it what you
will,--my false pride for my daughter, led me into an error. I could not
bring myself to acknowledge to any man, even to you--for you know that
it’s contrary quite to the principles and pride of our sex--that she
felt any partiality for a man who had shown none for her. You must be
sensible it was, to say no more, an awkward, mortifying thing; and I
was so afraid even of your finding it out, that--forgive me--I did, I
candidly acknowledge, fabricate the foolish story of Sir John Hunter.
But, believe me, I never seriously thought of her marrying him.”
“‘Fore George! I don’t understand one word of it from beginning to end,”
said Mr. Palmer, speaking aloud to himself.
Regardless of the profusion of words which Mrs. Beaumont continued
pouring forth, he seated himself in an arm-chair, and, deep in reverie
for some minutes, went on slowly striking his hands together, as he
leaned with his arms on his knees. At length he rose, rang the bell, and
said to the servant, “Sir, be so obliging as to let my man Crichton know
that he need not hurry himself to pack up my clothes, for I shall not go
to-morrow.”
Struck with consternation at these words, Mrs. Beaumont, nevertheless,
commanded the proper expression of joy on the occasion. “Delightful!
I must go this instant,” cried she, “and be the first to tell this
charming news to Amelia and Edward.”
“Tell them, then, madam, if you please, that I have gained such a
conquest over what Mr. Walsingham calls my hypochondriacism, that I am
determined, at whatever risk, to stay another year in Old England, and
that I hope to be present at both their weddings.”
Mrs. Beaumont’s quick exit was at this moment necessary to conceal her
dismay. Instead of going to Amelia, she hurried to her own room, locked
the door, and sat down to compose her feelings and to collect her
thoughts; but scarcely had she been two minutes in her apartment, when
a messenger came to summon her to the festive scene in the park. The
tenants and villagers were all at dinner, and Mr. Beaumont sent to let
her know that they were waiting to drink her health. She was obliged to
go, and to appear all radiant with pleasure. The contrast between their
honest mirth and her secret sufferings was great. She escaped as soon as
she could from their _senseless_ joy, and again shut herself up in her
own room.
This sudden and totally unexpected resolution of Mr. Palmer’s so
astonished her, that she could scarcely believe she had heard or
understood his words rightly. Artful persons may, perhaps, calculate
with expertness and accuracy what will, in any given case, be the
determinations of the selfish and the interested; but they are liable to
frequent mistakes in judging of the open-hearted and the generous: there
is no sympathy to guide them, and all their habits tend to mislead them
in forming opinions of the direct and sincere. It had never entered into
Mrs. Beaumont’s imagination that Mr. Palmer would, notwithstanding
his belief that he hazarded his life by so doing, defer a whole year
returning to Jamaica, merely to secure the happiness of her son and
daughter. She plainly saw that he now suspected her dislike to the
Walsinghams, and her aversion to the double union with that family: she
saw that the slightest circumstance in her conduct, which confirmed his
suspicions, would not only utterly ruin her in his opinion, but might
induce him to alter that part of his will which left her sole possessor
of his fortune during her life. Bad as her affairs were at this moment,
she knew that they might still be worse. She recollected the letter
of _perfect approbation_ which Sir John Hunter had in his power. She
foresaw that he would produce this letter on the first rumour of her
favouring another lover for Amelia. She had just declared to Mr. Palmer,
that she never seriously thought of Sir John Hunter for her daughter;
and, should this letter be brought to light, she must be irremediably
convicted of the basest duplicity, and there would be no escape from the
shame of falsehood, or rather the disgrace of detection. In this grand
difficulty, Mrs. Beaumont was too good a politician to waste time upon
any inferior considerations. Instead of allowing herself leisure to
reflect that all her present difficulties arose from her habits of
insincerity, she, with the true spirit of intrigue, attributed her
disappointments to some deficiency of artifice. “Oh!” said she to
herself, “why did I _write?_ I should only have _spoken_ to Sir John.
How could I be so imprudent as to _commit_ myself by writing? But what
can be done to repair this error?”
One web destroyed, she, with indefatigable subtlety, began to weave
another. With that promptitude of invention which practice alone can
give, she devised a scheme, by which she hoped not only to prevent Sir
John Hunter from producing the written proof of her duplicity, but by
which she could also secure the reversionary title, and the great Wigram
estate. The nature of the scheme shall be unfolded in the next chapter;
and it will doubtless procure for Mrs. Beaumont, from all proper
judges, a just tribute of admiration. They will allow our heroine to
be possessed not only of that address, which is the peculiar glory
of female politicians, but also of that masculine quality, which the
greatest, wisest, of mankind has pronounced to be the first, second, and
third requisite for business--“Boldness--boldness--boldness.”