_“Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled, from beauty and from love!”_
DRYDEN.
All that passed in the two hours’ conversation between the discarded
baronet and the mother of his late mistress did not transpire; but Mrs.
Beaumont said that she had taken infinite pains to reconcile Sir John
to his fate, and his subsequent behaviour showed that she had
succeeded. His attention towards her also plainly proved that he was not
dissatisfied by the part she had acted, or rather by the part that he
thought she had acted. Thus all things went on smoothly. Mrs. Beaumont,
in confidence, told her friend, Miss Hunter, that Sir John had behaved
with the greatest propriety and candour (candour! that hackneyed word);
that he had acknowledged that his principal inducement to propose for
her daughter had been a desire to be connected with a family for which
he had such peculiar regard.
“This, my love,” continued Mrs. Beaumont, “was all, you know, that your
brother could, with propriety, say on such an occasion; all indeed that
I would permit him to say. As to the rest, on Amelia’s account, you
know, I could not refuse his request to continue his visits in this
family on the same footing of friendship as usual.”
Whether this was the truth and the whole truth, the mystery that
involves all cabinet-councils, and more especially those of female
politicians, prevents the cautious historian from presuming to decide.
But arguing from general causes, and from the established characters and
ruling passions of the parties concerned, we may safely conjecture that
the baronet did not at this time make any decisive proposal to the
lady, but that he kept himself at liberty to advance or recede, as
circumstances should render it expedient. His ruling passion was
avarice; and though he had been allured by the hints which his sister
had thrown out concerning Mrs. Beaumont’s increased jointure, and
vast expectancies from Mr. Palmer, yet he was not so rash as to act
decisively upon such vague information: he had wisely determined to
obtain accurate and positive evidence from Captain Lightbody, who
seemed, in this case, to be the common vouchee; but Lightbody happened
to be gone out to shoot _flappers_.[4]
Consequently Sir John wisely entrenched himself in general professions
of regard to Mrs. Beaumont, and reflections on the happiness of being
connected with such a respectable family. Mrs. Beaumont, who understood
the whole of the game, now saw that her play must be to take Captain
Lightbody again into her confidence.
Ever careful not to commit herself, she employed Miss Hunter to
communicate _her own scheme_ to the captain, and to prepare him on
the requisite points with proper answers to those inquiries which she
foresaw the baronet would make.
“You know, my love,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “you can find a proper moment
to say all you wish to Lightbody.”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Hunter, “I will if I possibly can this day; but it
is so difficult to find a good time--”
“At dinner, suppose?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“At dinner! surely, ma’am, that’s an awkward time, is not it, for
talking of secrets?”
“The best time in the world, my dear; you know we are to have the
Duttons, and the Lord knows whom besides, to-day. And when there’s a
large company, and every body talking at once, and eating, and drinking,
and carving, it is the best time in the world! You may say what you
please; your neighbours are all happily engaged, too busy to mind you.
Get near fat Mr. Dutton, and behind the screen of his prodigious elbow
you will be comfortably recessed from curious impertinents. My dear,
the most perfect solitude is not so convenient as one of these great
dinners.”
Whilst Mrs. Beaumont was demonstrating to Miss Hunter that the most
convenient and secure time for a _tête-à-tête_ is at a large dinner, she
happened to look out of the window, near which they were standing, and
she saw her son and daughter with Mr. Palmer walking in the park; they
sat down under a tree within view of the house.
“Come away from the window, my dear,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “they will
observe us, and perhaps think we are plotting something. I wonder what
they are talking of! Look how earnestly Amelia is stretching out her
neck, and Mr. Palmer striking his cane upon the ground. Come back a
little, my dear, come back; you can see as well here.”
“But I see a gentleman on horseback, galloping. Oh, ma’am, look! he has
stopped! he has jumped off his horse! Captain Walsingham it must be!”
“Captain Walsingham it really is!” said Mrs. Beaumont, pressing forward
to look out of the window, yet standing so, that she could not be seen
from without.
“Dear,” said Miss Hunter, “but how delighted Mr. Beaumont seems; and
how Mr. Palmer shakes Captain Walsingham’s hand, as if he had known him
these hundred years! What can make them so glad to see him? Do look at
them, ma’am.”
“I see it all!” said Mrs. Beaumont, with an involuntary sigh.
“But, dear Mrs. Beaumont,” pursued Miss Hunter, “if he has actually
come at last to propose for Amelia, don’t you think he is doing it in a
shabby sort of way? When he has been in London too--and if he has taken
such a treasure too, could not he have come down here a little more in
style, with some sort of an equipage of his own at least? But now only
look at him; would you, if you met him on the road, know him from any
common man?”
Another sigh, deep and sincere, was all the answer Mrs. Beaumont made.
“I am sure,” continued Miss Hunter, as Mrs. Beaumont drew her away from
the window, “I am sure, I think Amelia has not gained much by the change
of admirers; for what’s a captain of a ship?”
“He ranks with a colonel in the army, to be sure,” said Mrs. Beaumont;
“but Amelia might have looked much higher. If she does not know her own
interest and dignity, that is not my fault.”
“If she had such a fortune as I shall have,” said Miss Hunter, “she
might afford to marry for love, because you know she could make her
husband afterwards keep her proper equipages, and take her to town, and
go into parliament, and get a title for her too!”
“Very true, my darling,” said Mrs. Beaumont, who was at this instant
so absent, that she assented without having heard one syllable that her
darling said.
“But for Amelia, who has no such great fortune of her own, it is quite
another thing, you know, dearest Mrs. Beaumont. Oh, you’ll see how
she’ll repent when she sees you Lady Puckeridge, and herself plain
Mrs. Walsingham. And when she sees the figure you’ll make in town next
winter, and the style my brother will live in--Oh, then she’ll see what
a difference there is between Sir John Hunter and Captain Walsingham!”
“Very true, indeed, my dear,” said Mrs. Beaumont; and this time she did
not answer without having heard the assertion. The door opened.
“Captain Walsingham! dare I believe my eyes? And do I see our friend,
Captain Walsingham, again at last?”
“At last! Oh, Mrs. Beaumont, you don’t know how hard I have worked to
get here.”
“How kind! But won’t you sit down and tell me?”
“No; I can neither sit, nor rest, nor speak, nor think upon any subject
but one,” said Captain Walsingham.
“That’s right,” cried Mr. Palmer.
“Mrs. Beaumont--pardon my abruptness,” continued Captain Walsingham,
“but you see before you a man whose whole happiness is at stake. May I
beg a few minutes’ conversation with you?”
“This instant,” said Mrs. Beaumont, hesitating; but she saw that Mr.
Palmer’s eye was upon her, so with a smile she complied immediately; and
giving her hand graciously to Captain Walsingham, she accompanied him
into a little reading-room within the drawing-room.
“May I hope that we are friends?” said Captain Walsingham; “may I hope
so, Mrs. Beaumont--may I?”
“Good Heavens! Friends! assuredly; I hope so. I have always had and
expressed the highest opinion of you, Captain Walsingham.”
“I have had one, and, hitherto, but one opportunity of showing
myself, in any degree, deserving of your esteem, madam,” said Captain
Walsingham. “When I was in this country some years ago, you must have
seen how passionately I was in love with your daughter; but I knew that
my circumstances were then such that I could not hope to obtain Miss
Beaumont’s hand; and you will do me the justice to allow that I behaved
with prudence. Of the difficulty of the task I alone can judge.”
Mrs. Beaumont declared, that she admired Captain Walsingham’s conduct
inexpressibly, now that she understood what his feelings and motives had
been; but really he had kept his own secret so honourably, that she had
not, till within these few days, when it was _let out_ by Mr. Walsingham
to Mr. Palmer, had the most distant idea of his being attached to her
daughter.
Captain Walsingham was too polite even to _look_ a doubt of the truth of
a lady’s assertion: he therefore believed, because it was impossible.
Mrs. Beaumont, determining to make her story consistent, repeated nearly
what she had said to Mr. Palmer, and went on to confess that she had
often, with a mother’s pride, perhaps, in her own secret thoughts
wondered at the indifference Captain Walsingham showed towards Amelia.
Captain Walsingham was surprised that Mrs. Beaumont’s penetration
should have been so strangely mistaken; especially as the symptoms of
admiration and love must be so well known to a lady who had so many and
such passionate admirers.
Mrs. Beaumont smiled, and observed, that Captain Walsingham, though a
seaman, had all the address of a courtier, and she acknowledged that she
loved address.
“If by address Mrs. Beaumont means politeness, I admire it as much as
she does; but I disclaim and despise all that paltry system of artifice,
which is sometimes called address. No person of a great mind ever
condescends to use _address_ in that sense of the word; not because they
cannot, but because they will not.”
“Certainly--certainly,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “there is nothing I love so
much as frankness.”
“Then, frankly, Mrs. Beaumont, may I hope for your approbation in
addressing Miss Beaumont?”
“Frankly, then, you have my full approbation. This is the very thing
I have long secretly wished, as Mr. Palmer can tell you. You have ever
been the son-in-law of my choice, though not of my hopes.”
Delighted with this frank answer, this full approbation, this assurance
that he had always been the son-in-law of her choice, Captain Walsingham
poured out his warm heart in joy and gratitude. All suspicions of Mrs.
Beaumont were forgotten; for suspicion was unnatural to his mind:
though he knew, though he had experience almost from childhood, of
her character, yet, at this instant, he thought he had, till now, been
always prejudiced, always mistaken. Happy those who can be thus duped by
the warmth of their own hearts! It is a happiness which they who smile
in scorn at their credulity can never enjoy.
Wakening a little to the use of his understanding, Captain Walsingham
disconcerted Mrs. Beaumont, by suddenly saying, “Then there was not any
truth in the report, which I have heard with horror, that you were going
to marry Miss Beaumont to Sir John Hunter?”
“Then there was not any truth in the report I heard with horror, that
you were going to marry yourself to a Spanish nun?” said Mrs. Beaumont,
who had learned from a veteran in public warfare, that the best way to
parry an attack is not to defend, but to make an assault.
“My dear Captain Walsingham,” added she, with an arch smile, “I really
thought you were a man of too much sense, and above all, too much
courage, to be terror-struck by every idle report. You should leave
such _horrors_ to us weak women--to the visionary mind. Now, I could not
blame poor Amelia, if she were to ask, ‘Then was there no truth in
the report of the Spanish incognita?’--No, no,” pursued Mrs. Beaumont,
playfully, refusing to hear Captain Walsingham; “not to me, not to
_me_, must your defence be made. Appear before your judge, appear before
Amelia; I can only recommend you to mercy.”
What a charming woman this Mrs. Beaumont would be, if one could feel
quite sure of her sincerity, thought Captain Walsingham, as he followed
the lady, who, with apparently playful, but really polite grace, thus
eluded all further inquiry into her secret manoeuvres.
“Here, my dearest Amelia,” cried she, “is a culprit, whom I am bringing
to your august tribunal for mercy.”
“For justice,” said Captain Walsingham.
“Justice! Oh, the pride of the man’s heart, and the folly! Who ever
talks of justice to a woman? My dear captain, talk of mercy, or cruelty,
if you will; we ladies delight in being called cruel, you know, and
sometimes are even pleased to be merciful--but to be just, is the last
thing we think of: so now for your trial; public or private, Captain
Walsingham?”
“Public! as I am innocent.”
“Oyes, oyes! all manner of men,” cried Mr. Beaumont.
“The Spanish cause coming on!” cried Mr. Palmer: “let me hear it; and
let me have a good seat that I may hear--a seat near the judge.”
“Oh, you shall be judge, Mr. Palmer,” said Amelia; “and here is the best
seat for our good judge.”
“And you will remember,” said Mr. Beaumont, “that it is the duty of a
good judge to lean towards the prisoner.”
“To lean! No, to sit bolt upright, as I will if I can,” said old Mr.
Palmer, entering into the pleasantry of the young people as readily as
if he had been the youngest man in the company. As he looked round, his
good countenance beamed with benevolent pleasure.
“Now, sir captain, be pleased to inform the court what you have done,
or mean to do, with a certain Spanish nun, whom, as it is confidently
asserted in a letter from one of your own men, you carried off from her
nunnery, and did bring, or cause to be brought, with you to England.”
“My lord judge, will you do me the favour, or the justice, to order that
the letter alluded to may be read in court?”
This was ordered, and done accordingly.
“My lord judge,” said Captain Walsingham, “I have nothing to object to
the truth of the main points of this story; and considering that it was
told by a very young man, and a traveller, it contains but a reasonable
share of _‘travellers’ wonders.’_ Considering the opportunity and
temptation for embellishments afforded by such a romantic tale, less
has been added to it by the narrator than the usual progress of strange
reports might have prepared me to expect. It is most true, as it has
been stated, that I did, by her own desire, carry away from a nunnery,
at ----, this lady, who was neither a nun nor a Spanish lady, nor, as I
am compelled by my regard to truth to add, young, nor yet handsome.
My lord judge, far be it from me to impeach the veracity of the
letter-writer. It is admitted by the highest and the lowest authorities,
that beauty is a matter of taste, and that for taste there is no
standard; it is also notorious, that to a sailor every woman is fair and
young, who is not as old as Hecuba, or as ugly as Caifacaratadaddera. I
can therefore speak only to my own opinion and judgment. And really, my
lord, it grieves me much to spoil the romance, to destroy the effect of
a tale, which might in future serve for the foundation of some novel,
over which belles and beaux, yet unborn, might weep and wonder:
it grieves me much, I say, to be compelled by the severity of this
cross-examination to declare the simple truth, that there was no love in
the case; that, to the very best of my belief and judgment, the lady was
not in love with any body, much less with me.”
“As you have admitted, sir,” said the judge, “as you have voluntarily
stated, that to a sailor every woman is fair and young, who is not as
old as Hecuba, or as ugly as that other woman with the unspeakable name,
you will be pleased to inform the court how it happened, or how it was
possible, that in the course of a long voyage, you could avoid falling
in love with the damsel whom you had thus rescued and carried off.
Experience shows us, sir, that at land, and, I presume, at sea,
proximity is one of the most common causes of love. Now, I understand,
she was the only woman you saw for some months; and she had, I think
you allow, possession of your cabin, to and from which you had of course
constant egress and regress. Sir, human nature is human nature; here is
temptation, and opportunity, and circumstantial evidence enough, in our
days, to hang a man. What have you to offer in your defence, young man?”
“The plain fact, my lord, is, that instead of three months, I was but
three days in the dangerous state of proximity with the Spanish lady.
But had it been three months, or three years, there is my defence, my
lord,” said Captain Walsingham, bowing to Amelia. “At the first _blush_,
you allow it, I see, to be powerful; but how powerful, you cannot feel
as I do, without having looked, as I have done, into the mind.”
“I have looked into the mind as well as you, sir. You have a great deal
of assurance, to tell me I cannot feel and judge as well as you can.
But, nevertheless, I shall do you justice. I think your defence is
sufficient. I believe we must acquit him. But, pray--the plain matter of
fact, which I wanted to hear, I have not yet got at. What have you done
with this lady? and where is she?”
“She was carried safely to her friends--to her friend, for she has but
one friend, that I could find out, an old aunt, who lives in an obscure
lodging, in a narrow street, in London.”
“And, upon honour, this is all you know about her?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“All--except that she is in hopes of recovering some property, of which
she says she has been unjustly defrauded by some of her relations. After
I had paid my respects at the Admiralty, I made it my business to see
the lady, and to offer my services; but into her lawsuits, I thank God,
it was not my business to inquire, I recommended to her a good honest
lawyer, and came here as fast as horses could carry me.”
“But was not there some giving of diamonds, and exchanging of rings, one
day, upon deck?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“None,” said Captain Walsingham; “that was a mere fable of poor Birch’s
imagination. I recollect the lady showed me a Spanish motto upon her
ring; that is all I can remember about rings.--She had no diamonds,
and very few clothes. Now,” cried Captain Walsingham, growing a little
impatient of the length of his trial, for he had not yet been able to
speak for more than an instant to Amelia, “now, I hope, my trial is
ended; else its length will be, as in some other cases, the worst of
punishments.”
“Acquitted! acquitted! honourably acquitted!” said Mr. Palmer.
“Acquitted, acquitted, honourably acquitted by general acclamation,”
cried Mr. Beaumont.
“Acquitted by a smile from Amelia, worth all our acclamations,” said
Mrs. Beaumont.
“Captain Walsingham,” said Miss Hunter, “did the lady come to England
and go to London in a Spanish dress and long waist?”
She spoke, but Captain Walsingham did not hear her important question.
She turned to repeat it, but the captain was gone, and Amelia with him.
“Bless me! how quick! how odd!” said Miss Hunter, with a pouting look,
which seemed to add--nobody carries me off!
Mr. Beaumont looked duller than was becoming.
Mrs. Beaumont applied herself to adjust the pretty curls of Miss
Hunter’s hair; and Mr. Palmer, in one of his absent fits, hummed aloud,
as he walked up and down the room,
“‘And it’s, Oh! what will become of me?
Oh! what shall I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo.’”