_ CHAPTER XV
"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 Precieuses Ridicules,' and
'Les Femmes Savantes,' and may borrow from Moliere 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.
[Footnote 5:
Note by the Editor.--It is much to be regretted that the original papers belonging to this correspondence, including all the notes and letters, which Mrs. Beaumont either wrote herself, or those, still more important, which she caused to be written by her confidential amanuensis, which would doubtless form all together a body
of domestic diplomacy equally curious and useful, are irrecoverably lost to the world. After the most diligent search, the Editor is compelled to rest under the persuasion that they must all have been collected and committed to the flames by the too great prudence of the principal party concerned. Had they been trusted to the discretion of a
friend, the public would, doubtless, long since have been favoured with the whole.]
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.
[Footnote 6: See Bacon on Cunning.]
"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."
[Footnote 7: See Annual Register, 1761, for an entertaining account of the trial of Mr. M'Naughton.]
"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. _