“True love’s the gift which God has giv’n
To man alone, beneath the heav’n;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind.”
Happy love, though the most delightful in reality, is the most
uninteresting in description; and lovers are proverbially bad company,
except for one another: therefore we shall not intrude on Captain
Walsingham and Amelia, nor shall we give a journal of the days of
courtship; those days which, by Rousseau, and many people, have been
pronounced to be the happiest; by others, the only happy days of
existence; and which, by some privileged or prudent few, have been found
to be but the prelude to the increasing pleasures of domestic union.
Now that Mr. Beaumont saw his sister and his friend thus gratified in
their mutual esteem and affection,--now that he saw all obstacles to
their union removed, he became uncontroulably impatient to declare his
own attachment to Miss Walsingham.
“My dear mother, I can bear it no longer. Believe me, you are mistaken
in the whole romance you have imagined to yourself about Miss Hunter.
She is no more in love with me than I am with her. Since you fixed my
attention upon her, I have studied the young lady. She is not capable of
love: I don’t mean that she is not capable of wishing to be married, but
that is quite a different affair, which need not give me any peculiar
disturbance. My dear mother, find another husband for her, and my life
for it, her heart will not break; especially if you give her bales of
wedding finery enough to think and talk about for a calendar year.
“You abominably malicious monster of cruelty, I will not smile, nor will
I allow you to indulge your humour in this manner at the expense of your
poor victim.”
“Victim! never saw a girl look less like a victim, except, indeed, as
to her ornaments. I believe it is the etiquette for victims to appear
dressed out with garlands, and ribands, and flowers.”
“Positively, Edward, I won’t allow you to go on in this style;--do
you know you seriously hurt and offend me? do you consider that Miss
Hunter’s mother was my most intimate friend, and this match I have
anxiously wished, in consequence of an agreement made between us at your
birth and Albina’s?”
“Oh, ma’am, those agreements never turned out well, from the time of the
Arabian tales to the present moment. And you must pardon me if, after
having tried all that reason and patience would do, in vain, I now come
to impatience, and a little innocent ridicule. Except by laughing, I
have no other way left of convincing you that I never can or will marry
this young lady.”
“But so pretty a creature! Surely you _have thought_ her pretty.”
“Extremely pretty. And I acknowledge that there have been moments when
the influence of her--beauty, I can’t call it--prettiness, joined to
the power of my mother’s irresistible address, have almost lapped me
in elysium--a fool’s paradise. But, thank Heaven and Miss Walsingham!
I unlapped myself; and though the sweet airs took my fancy, they never
imprisoned my soul.”
“Vastly poetical! quite in the blue-stocking style.”
“Blue-stocking! Dear mother, that expression is not elegant enough
for you. That commonplace taunt is unworthy of my mother,” said Mr.
Beaumont, warmly, for he was thrown off his guard by the reflection
implied on Miss Walsingham. “Ignorant silly women may be allowed to
sneer at information and talents in their own sex, and, if they have
read them, may talk of _‘Les Précieuses Ridicules_,’ and _‘Les Femmes
Savantes_,’ and may borrow from Molière all the wit they want,
to support the cause of folly. But from women who are themselves
distinguished for talents, such apostasy--but I am speaking to my
mother--I forbear.”
“Great forbearance to your mother you have shown, in truth,” cried Mrs.
Beaumont, reddening with genuine anger: “Marry as you please! I
have done. Fool that I have been, to devote my life to plans for the
happiness and aggrandizement of my children! It is now time I should
think of myself. You shall not see me the defeated, deserted, duped,
despised mother--the old dowager _permitted_ in the house of which
she was once the mistress! No, no, Mr. Beaumont,” cried she, rising
indignantly, “this shall never, never be.”
Touched and astonished by a burst of passion, such as he scarcely had
ever before seen from his mother, Mr. Beaumont stopped her as she rose;
and taking her hand in the most affectionate manner, “Forgive me, my
dear mother, the hasty words I said just now. I was very much in the
wrong. I beg your pardon. Forgive your son.”
Mrs. Beaumont struggled to withdraw the hand which her son forcibly
detained.
“Be always,” continued he, “be always mistress of this house, of me,
and mine. The chosen wife of my heart will never torment you, or degrade
herself, with paltry struggles for power. Your days shall be happy and
honoured: believe me, I speak from my heart.”
Mrs. Beaumont looked as if her anger had subsided; yet, as if struggling
with unusual feelings, she sat silent. Mr. Beaumont continued, “Your
son--who is no sentimentalist, no speech-maker--your son, who has
hitherto perhaps been too rough, too harsh--now implores you, by these
sincere caresses, by all that is tender and true in nature, to believe
in the filial affection of your children. Give us, simply give us your
confidence; and our confidence, free and unconstrained, shall be given
in return. Then we shall be happy indeed.”
Touched, vanquished, Mrs. Beaumont leaned her head on her son, and said,
“Then we shall be happy indeed!” The exclamation was sincere: at this
moment she thought as she spoke. All her schemes were forgotten: the
reversionary title, the Wigram estate--all, all forgotten: miraculous
eloquence and power of truth!
“What happiness!” said Mrs. Beaumont: “I ask no other. You are right,
my dear son; marry Miss Walsingham, and we have enough, and more than
enough, for happiness. You are right; and henceforward we shall have but
one mind amongst us.”
With true gratitude and joy her son embraced her; and this was the most
delightful, perhaps the only really delightful, moment she had felt for
years. She was sincere, and at ease. But this touch of nature, strong
as it was, operated only for a moment: habit resumed her influence; art
regained her pupil and her slave! Captain Lightbody and Miss Hunter came
into the room; and with them came low thoughts of plots, and notes,
and baronets, and equipages, and a reversionary title, and the Wigram
estate. What different ideas of happiness! Her son, in the mean time,
had started up, mounted his horse, and had galloped off to realize some
of his ideas of felicity, by the immediate offer of his hand to the lady
who possessed his whole heart. Cool as policy, just recovered from the
danger of imprudent sensibility, could make her, Mrs. Beaumont was now
all herself again.
“Have you found much amusement shooting this morning, Lightbody?” said
she, carelessly.
“No, ma’am; done nothing--just nothing at all--for I met Sir John in the
grounds, and could not leave him. Poor Sir John, ma’am; I tell him we
must get him a crook; he is quite turned despairing shepherd. Never saw
a man so changed. Upon my soul, he is--seriously now, Mrs. Beaumont, you
need not laugh--I always told Sir John that his time of falling in love
would come; and come it has, at last, with a vengeance.”
“Oh, nonsense! nonsense, Lightbody! This to me! and of Sir John Hunter!”
Though Mrs. Beaumont called it, and thought it nonsense, yet it
flattered her; and though she appeared half offended by flattery so
gross, as to seem almost an insult upon her understanding, yet her
vanity was secretly gratified, even by feeling that she had dependents
who were thus obliged to flatter; and though she despised Captain
Lightbody for the meanness, yet he made his court to her successfully,
by persisting in all the audacity of adulation. She knew Sir John Hunter
too well to believe that he was liable to fall in love with any thing
but a fair estate or a fine fortune; yet she was gratified by feeling
that she possessed so great a share of those charms which age cannot
wither; of that substantial power, to which men do not merely feign
in poetical sport to submit, or to which they are slaves only for a
honey-moon, but to which they do homage to the latest hour of life,
with unabating, with increasing devotion. Besides this sense of pleasure
arising from calculation, it may be presumed that, like all other female
politicians, our heroine had something of the woman lurking at her
heart; something of that feminine vanity, which inclines to believe in
the potency of personal charms, even when they are in the wane. Captain
Lightbody’s asseverations, and the notes Sir John Hunter wrote to his
sister, were at last listened to by Mrs. Beaumont with patience, and
even with smiles; and, after it had been sufficiently reiterated,
that really it was using Sir John Hunter ill not to give him some more
decisive answer, when he was so unhappy, so impatient, she at length
exclaimed, “Well, Lightbody, tell your friend Sir John, then, since
it must be so, I will consult my friends, and see what can be done for
him.”
“When may I say? for I dare not see Sir John again--positively I dare
not meet him--without having some hope to give, something decisive. He
says the next time he comes here he must be allowed to make it known to
the family that he is Mrs. Beaumont’s admirer. So, when may I say?”
“Oh, dearest Mrs. Beaumont,” cried Miss Hunter, “say to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! impossible!”
“But when?” said Miss Hunter: “only look at my brother’s note to me
again; you see he is afraid of being cast off at last as he was
before about Amelia, if Mr. Palmer should object; and he says this
disappointment would be such a very different affair.”
“Indeed,” said Captain Lightbody, “I, who am in Sir John’s confidence,
can vouch for that; for I have reason to believe, that--that _the
connexion_ was the charm, and that the daughter would not have been
thought of. Stop, I was charged not to say this. But _when_ Mrs.
Beaumont, to return to my point--”
“Oh! name an early day,” cried Miss Hunter, in a fondling tone; “name
an early day for my brother’s coming; and then, you know, it will be so
_nice_ to have the wedding days fixed for both marriages. And, dearest
Mrs. Beaumont, remember I am to be your bride’s-maid; and we’ll have a
magnificent wedding, and I shall be bride’s-maid!”
“The dear innocent little creature, how mad she is with spirits! Well,
you shall be my bride’s-maid, if the thing takes place.”
“_If.--If_ to the winds!--Captain Lightbody, tell my brother--No, I’ll
write myself, and tell him he may come.”
“How she distresses me! But she is so affectionate, one does not know
how to be angry with her. But, my dear, as to naming the day when he may
publicly declare himself, I cannot; for, you know, I have to break the
affair to Mr. Palmer, and to my son and daughter, and I must take my own
time, and find a happy moment for this; so name a day I cannot; but
in general--and it’s always safest to use general terms--you may say,
_soon_.”
This was Mrs. Beaumont’s ultimatum. The note was written accordingly,
and committed to the care of the confidential captain.
This business of mysterious note-writing, and secret negotiations[5],
was peculiarly suited to our heroine’s genius and taste. Considering
the negotiation to be now in effect brought within view of a happy
termination, her ambassador, furnished with her ultimatum, having now
actually set out on his ostensible mission of duck-shooting, our fair
negotiatrix prepared to show the usual degree of gratitude towards those
who had been the principal instruments of her success. The proper time,
she thought, was now arrived, when, having no further occasion for Miss
Hunter’s services, she might finally undeceive her young friend as to
any hopes she might retain of a union with Mr. Beaumont; and she felt
that it was now indispensably necessary to disclose the truth, that her
son had declared his attachment to Miss Walsingham.
Mrs. Beaumont opened the delicate case with a sigh, which claimed the
notice of her young confidante.
“What a deep sigh!” said Miss Hunter, who was perfect, to use a musical
term, in her lessons, _pour observer les soupirs_: “What a sigh! I hope
it was for my poor brother?”
“Ah, no, my love! for one nearer my heart--for you.”
“For me!--dear me!”
“You see before you a mother, all of whose fondest wishes and plans are
doomed to be frustrated by her children. Amelia would have her way: I
was forced to yield. My son follows her example, insists upon marrying
without fortune, or extraordinary beauty, or any of the advantages which
I had fondly pointed out in the daughter-in-law of my heart. You turn
away from me, my darling! How shall I go on? how shall I tell you all
the terrible truth?”
“Oh, ma’am, pray go on; pray tell me all.”
“Miss Walsingham; that’s all, in one word. These Walsinghams have forced
themselves into my family,--fairly outwitted me. I cannot tell you how
much, how deeply I am mortified!”
“Thank Heaven! I am not mortified,” cried Miss Hunter, throwing back her
head with pettish disdain.
Mrs. Beaumont, who had prepared herself for a fainting fit, or at least
for a flood of tears, rejoiced to see this turn in the young lady’s
temper.
“That’s right, my own love. Hew I admire your spirit! This pride becomes
you, and is what I expected from your understanding. Set a just value
upon yourself, and show it.”
“I should set but little value on myself, indeed, if I did not think
myself equal to Miss Walsingham; but Mr. Beaumont knows best.”
“Not best, I fear,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “but, from a child he was ever
the most self-willed, uncontrollable being; there was no moving, no
persuading him. There was no power, no appeal, my love, I did not try.”
“Dear ma’am, I am excessively sorry you did.”
“Why, my dear, I could not refrain from doing all I could, not only for
my son’s sake, but for yours, when I saw your affections, as I feared,
so deeply engaged. But your present magnanimity gives me hopes that the
shock will not be irrecoverable.”
“Irrecoverable! No, really, ma’am. If Mr. Beaumont expects to see me
wear the willow for him all my life, his vanity will be mistaken.”
“Certainly, my dear,” replied Mrs. Beaumont, “you would not be so weak
as to wear the willow for any man. A young lady of your fortune should
never wear the weeping but the golden willow. Turn your pretty little
face again towards me, and smile once more upon me.”
Miss Hunter had sat with her face turned from Mrs. Beaumont during the
whole of this dialogue--“as if by hiding her face, she could conceal the
emotions of her mind from me,” thought her penetrating observer.
“Spare me, spare me, dearest Mrs. Beaumont,” cried Miss Hunter, hiding
her face on the arm of the sofa, and seeming now disposed to pass from
the heights of anger to the depths of despair.
Mrs. Beaumont, less hard-hearted than some politicians, who care not who
dies or lives, provided they attain their own objects, now listened
at least with seeming commiseration to her young friend, who, with
intermitting sighs, and in a voice which her position or her sobs
rendered scarcely audible, talked of dying, and of never marrying any
other man upon the earth.
Not much alarmed, however, by the dying words of young ladies, Mrs.
Beaumont confined her attention to the absurdity of the resolution
against marriage in general, and at this instant formed a plan of
marrying Miss Hunter to one of her nephews instead of her son. She had
one unmarried nephew, a young man of good figure and agreeable manners,
but with only a younger brother’s portion. To him she thought Miss
Hunter’s large fortune would be highly convenient; and she had reason to
believe that his taste in the choice of a wife would be easily governed
by her advice, or by his interest. Thus she could, at least, prevent her
young friend’s affections and fortune from going out of the family.
In consequence of this glimpse of a new scheme, our indefatigable
politician applied herself to prepare the way for it with her wonted
skill. She soothed the lovelorn and pettish damsel with every expression
that could gratify pride and rouse high thoughts of revenge. She
suggested that instead of making rash vows of celibacy, which would only
show forlorn constancy, Miss Hunter should abide by her first spirited
declaration, never to wear the willow for any man; and that the best way
to assert her own dignity would be to marry as soon as possible. After
having given this consolatory advice, Mrs. Beaumont left the young
lady’s grief to wear itself out. “I know, my love,” added she, “a friend
of mine who would die for the happiness which my obstinate son does not,
it seems, know how to value.”
“Who, ma’am?” said Miss Hunter, raising her head: “I’m sure I can’t
guess whom you can possibly mean--who, ma’am?”
“Ah! my dear, excuse me,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “that is a secret I cannot
tell you yet. When you are ‘fit to hear yourself convinced,’ may be, I
may obtain leave to tell you your admirer’s name. I can assure you, he’s
a very fashionable and a very agreeable man; a great favourite with our
sex, a particular friend of mine, and an officer.”
“Lord bless me!” exclaimed Miss Hunter, starting quite up, “an officer!
I can’t imagine whom you mean! Dear Mrs. Beaumont, whom can you mean?”
Mrs. Beaumont walked towards the door.
“Only tell me one thing, dearest Mrs. Beaumont--did I ever see him?”
Mrs. Beaumont, wisely declining to answer any more questions at present,
quitted the room, and left Miss Hunter dying--with curiosity.
The new delight of this fresh project, with the prospect of bringing to
a happy termination her negotiation with Sir John Hunter, sustained Mrs.
Beaumont’s spirits in the midst of the disappointments she experienced
respecting the marriages of her son and daughter; and enabled her, with
less effort of dissimulation, to take apparently a share in the general
joy which now pervaded her family. Her son expressed his felicity
with unbounded rapture, when he found his proposal to Miss Walsingham
graciously received by the object of his affections, and by all her
family: his gratitude to his mother for no longer opposing his wishes
gave a tenderness to his manner which would have touched any heart but
that of a politician. Amelia, also, even in the midst of her love for
Captain Walsingham, was anxiously intent upon showing dutiful attention
to her mother, and upon making her some amends for the pain she had
caused her of late. Whenever the brother and sister were together,
in all their views of future happiness their mother was one of their
principal objects; and these dispositions both Miss Walsingham and
Captain Walsingham were earnest to confirm. No young people could have
higher ideas than they had of the duty of children towards parents, and
of the delight of family confidence and union. In former times, when Mr.
Beaumont had been somewhat to blame in the roughness of his sincerity
towards his mother, and when he had been disposed to break from her
artful restraints, Captain Walsingham, by his conversation, and by his
letters, had always used his power and influence to keep him within
bounds; and whenever he could do so with truth, to raise Mrs. Beaumont
in his opinion. She now appeared in a more advantageous light to her
family, and they were more disposed to believe in her sincerity than
they had ever been since the credulous days of childhood. The days of
love and childhood are perhaps, in good minds, almost equally credulous,
or, at least, confiding. Even Mr. Walsingham was won over by the
pleasure he felt in the prospect of his daughter’s happiness; and good
Mr. Palmer was ten times more attentive than ever to Madam Beaumont.
In his attention, however, there was something more ceremonious than
formerly; it was evident, for he was too honest to conceal his feelings,
that his opinion of her was changed, and that his attention was paid
to her rather as the widow of his old friend than on her own account.
Amelia, who particularly remarked this change, and who feared that it
must be severely painful to her mother, tried by every honest art of
kindness to reinstate her in his regard. Amelia, however, succeeded only
in raising herself in his esteem.
“Do not disturb yourself, my dear young lady,” said he to her, one day,
“about your mother and me. Things are on their right footing between us,
and can never be on any other. She, you see, is quite satisfied.”
Mrs. Beaumont, indeed, had not Amelia’s quick sensibility with regard
to the real affections of her friends, though she was awake to every
external mark of attention. She was content, as Mr. Palmer before others
always treated her with marked deference, and gave her no reason
to apprehend any alteration in his testamentary dispositions. When
settlements were talked of for the intended marriages, Mr. Palmer seemed
to consider Mrs. Beaumont first in all their consultations, appealed for
her opinion, and had ever a most cautious eye upon her interests.
This she observed with satisfaction, and she was gratified by the
demonstrations of increased regard from her son and daughter, because
she thought it would facilitate her projects. She wished that her
marriage with Sir John Hunter should appear well to the world; and for
this reason she desired that it should _seem_ to be liked by all her
family--seem, for as to their real opinions she was indifferent.
Things were in this situation, when Mrs. Beaumont _caused herself to be
surprised_[6] one morning by Mr. Palmer, with a letter in her hand, deep
in reverie.
“Oh! my dear Mr. Palmer, is it you?” cried she, starting very naturally;
“I was really so lost in thought--”
Mr. Palmer hoped that he did not disturb her.--“Disturb me! no, my good
friend, you are the very person I wished to consult.” Her eye glanced
again and again upon the letter she held in her hand, but Mr. Palmer
seemed provokingly destitute of curiosity; he however took a chair,
and his snuff-box, and with a polite but cold manner said he was much
honoured by her consulting him, but that of course his judgment could be
of little service to a lady of Mrs. Beaumont’s understanding.
“Understanding! Ah!” said she, “there are cases where understanding is
of no use to women, but quite the contrary.”
Mr. Palmer did not contradict the assertion, nor did he assent to it,
but waited, with a pinch of snuff arrested in its way, to have the cases
specified.
“In love affairs, for instance, we poor women,” said Mrs. Beaumont,
looking down prettily; but Mr. Palmer afforded no assistance to her
bashful hesitation; she was under the necessity of finishing her
sentence, or of beginning another, upon a different construction.
The latter was most convenient, and she took a new and franker
tone:--“Here’s a letter from poor Sir John Hunter.”
Mr. Palmer still sat bending forward to listen with the most composed
deference, but pressed not in the slightest degree upon her confidence
by any question or look down towards the letter, or up towards the
lady’s face, but straightforward looked he, till, quite provoked by his
dulness, Mrs. Beaumont took the matter up again, and, in a new tone,
said, “To be candid with you, my dear friend, this is a subject on which
I feel some awkwardness and reluctance in speaking to you--for of all
men breathing, I should in any important action of my life wish for your
approbation; and yet, on the present occasion, I fear, and so does Sir
John, that you will utterly disapprove of the match.”
She paused again, to be asked--What match? But compelled by her
auditor’s invincible silence to make out her own case, she proceeded:
“You must know, my good sir, that Sir John Hunter is, it seems,
unconquerably bent upon a connexion with this family; for being refused
by the daughter, he has proposed for the mother!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Palmer, bowing.
“I thought you would have been more surprised,” said Mrs. Beaumont: “I
am glad the first sound of the thing does not, as I was afraid it would,
startle or revolt you.”
“Startle me, it could not, madam,” said Mr. Palmer, “for I have been
prepared for it some time past.”
“Is it possible? And who could have mentioned it to you--Captain
Lightbody?”
“Captain Lightbody!” cried Mr. Palmer, with a sudden flash of
indignation: “believe me, madam, I never thought of speaking to Captain
Lightbody of your affairs, I am not in the habit of listening to such
people.”
“But still, he might have spoken.”
“No, madam, no; he would not have dared to bring me secret information.”
“Honourable! quite honourable! But then, my dear sir, how came you to
know the thing?”
“I saw it. You know, madam, those who stand by always see more than the
players.”
“And do you think my son and daughter, and Captain Walsingham, know it
too?”
“I fancy not; for they have not been standers by: they have been deeply
engaged themselves.”
“That’s well--for I wished to have your opinion and advice in the first
place, before I hinted it even to them, or any one else living. As I
feared the match would not meet your approbation, I told Sir John so,
and I gave him only a provisional consent.”
“Like the provisional consent of that young Irish lady,” said Mr.
Palmer, laughing, “who went through the marriage service with her
lover, adding at the end of each response, ‘provided my father gives
his consent.’[7] But, madam, though I am old enough certainly to be your
father, yet even if I had the honour to be so in reality, as you are
arrived at years of discretion, you know you cannot need my consent.”
“But seriously, my excellent friend,” cried she, “I never could be happy
in marrying against your approbation. And let me, in my own vindication,
explain to you the whole of the affair.”
Here Mr. Palmer, dreading one of her long explanations, which he knew
he should never comprehend, besought her not to invest him with the
unbecoming character of her judge. He represented that no vindication
was necessary, and that none could be of any use. She however persisted
in going through a sentimental defence of her conduct. She assured
Mr. Palmer, that she had determined never to marry again; that her
inviolable respect for her dear Colonel Beaumont’s memory had induced
her to persist in this resolution for many years. That motives of
delicacy and generosity were what first prevailed with her to listen to
Sir John’s suit; and that now she consoled and supported herself by
the proud reflection, that she was acting as her dear Colonel Beaumont
himself, could he know the circumstances and read her heart, would wish
and enjoin her to act.
Here a smile seemed to play upon Mr. Palmer’s countenance; but the smile
had vanished in an instant, and was followed by a sudden gush of tears,
which were as suddenly wiped away; not, however, before they reminded
Mrs. Beaumont to spread her handkerchief before her face.
“Perhaps,” resumed she, after a decent pause, “perhaps I am doing wrong
with the best intentions. Some people think that widows should never, on
any account, marry again, and perhaps Mr. Palmer is of this opinion?”
“No, by no means,” said Mr. Palmer; “nor was Colonel Beaumont. Often
and often he said in his letters to me, that he wished his wife to marry
again after he was gone, and to be as happy after his death as she
had been during his life. I only hope that your choice may fulfil--may
justify--” Mr. Palmer stopped again, something in Shakspeare, about
preying on garbage, ran in his head; and, when Mrs. Beaumont went on
to some fresh topics of vindication, and earnestly pressed for his
_advice_, he broke up the conference by exclaiming, “‘Fore Jupiter,
madam, we had better say nothing more about the matter; for, after all,
what can the wit of man or woman make of it, but that you choose to
marry Sir John Hunter, and that nobody in the world has a right to
object to it? There is certainly no occasion to use any management
with me; and your eloquence is only wasting itself, for I am not so
presumptuous, or so unreasonable, as to set myself up for the judge of
your actions. You do me honour by consulting me; but as you already know
my opinion of the gentleman, I must decline saying any thing further on
the subject.”
Mrs. Beaumont was left in a painful state of doubt as to the main point,
whether Mr. Palmer would or would not alter his will. However, as she
was determined that the match should be accomplished, she took advantage
of the declaration Mr. Palmer made, that he had no right to object to
her following her own inclinations; and she told Sir John Hunter that
Mr. Palmer was perfectly satisfied; and that he had indeed relieved
her mind from some foolish scruples, by having assured her that it was
Colonel Beaumont’s particular wish, often expressed in his confidential
letters, that his widow should marry again. So far, so good. Then the
affair was to be broken to her son and daughter. She begged Mr. Palmer
would undertake, for her sake, this delicate task; but he declined it
with a frank simplicity.
“Surely, madam,” said he, “you can speak without difficulty to your own
son and daughter; and I have through life observed, that employing
one person to speak to another is almost always hurtful. I should not
presume, however, to regulate your conduct, madam, by my observations;
I should only give this as a reason for declining the office with which
you proposed to honour me.”
The lady, compelled to speak for herself to her son and daughter, opened
the affair to them with as much delicacy and address as she had used
with Mr. Palmer. Their surprise was great; for they had not the most
remote idea of her intentions. The result of a tedious conversation of
three hours’ length was perfectly satisfactory to her, though it would
have been to the highest degree painful and mortifying to a woman of
more feeling, or one less intent upon _an establishment_, a reversionary
title, and the Wigram estate. How low she sunk in the opinion of her
children and her friends was comparatively matter of small consequence
to Mrs. Beaumont, provided she could keep fair appearances with the
world. Whilst her son and daughter were so much ashamed of her intended
marriage, that they would not communicate their sentiments even to each
other,--they, with becoming duty, agreed that Mrs. Beaumont was very
good in speaking to them on the subject; as she had an uncontroulable
right to marry as she thought proper.
Mrs. Beaumont now wrote letters innumerable to her extensive circle of
connexions and acquaintance, announcing her approaching nuptials, and
inviting them to her wedding. It was settled by Mrs. Beaumont, that
the three marriages should _take place_ on the same day. This point
she laboured with her usual address, and at last brought the parties
concerned to give up their wishes for a private wedding, to gratify
her love for show and parade. Nothing now remained but to draw the
settlements. Mrs. Beaumont, who piqued herself upon her skill in
business, and who thought the sum of wisdom was to excel in cunning,
looked over her lawyer’s drafts, and suggested many nice emendations,
which obtained for her from an attorney the praise of being a vastly
clever woman. Sir John was not, on his side, deficient in attention
to his own interests. Never was there a pair better matched in this
respect; never were two people going to be married more afraid that
each should _take the other in_. Sir John, however, pressed forward
the business with an eagerness that surprised every body. Mrs. Beaumont
again and again examined the settlements, to try to account prudentially
for her lover’s impatience; but she _saw_ that _all_ was right there on
her part, and her self-love at last acquiesced in the belief that
Sir John’s was now the ardour of a real lover. To the lady’s
entire satisfaction, the liveries, the equipages, the diamonds, the
wedding-clothes were all bought, and the wedding-day approached. Mrs.
Beaumont’s rich and fashionable connexions and acquaintance all promised
to grace her nuptials. Nothing was talked of but the preparations for
Mrs. Beaumont and Sir John Hunter’s marriage; and so full of business
and bustle, and mysteries, and _sentimentalities_, and vanities was she,
that she almost forgot that any body was to be married but herself. The
marriages of her son and daughter seemed so completely to merge in the
importance and splendour of her own, that she merely recollected them as
things that were to be done on the same day, as subordinate parts that
were to be acted by inferior performers, whilst she should engross the
public interest and applause. In the mean time Miss Hunter was engaged,
to Mrs. Beaumont’s satisfaction and her own, in superintending the
wedding-dresses, and in preparing the most elegant dress imaginable for
herself, as bride’s-maid. Now and then she interrupted these occupations
with sighs and fits of pretty sentimental dejection; but Mrs. Beaumont
was well convinced that a new lover would soon make her forget her
disappointment. The nephew was written to, and invited to spend some
time with his aunt, immediately after her marriage; for she determined
that Miss Hunter should be her niece, since she could not be her
daughter. This secondary intrigue went on delightfully in our heroine’s
imagination, without interfering with the main business of her own
marriage. The day, the long-expected day, that was to crown all her
hopes, at length arrived.