_ CHAPTER IV
"I shall in all my best obey you, madam."
--HAMLET.
"Did you meet Miss Hunter, my dear son?" said she.
"Yes, ma'am, I just passed the carriage in the avenue: she is going home, is not she?" said he, rather in a tone of satisfaction.
"Ah, poor thing! yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, in a most pathetic tone: "ah, poor thing!"
"Why, ma'am, what has happened to her? What's the matter?"
"Matter? Oh, nothing!--Did I say that any thing was the matter? Don't speak so loud," whispered she: "your groom heard every word we said; stay till he is out of hearing, and then we can talk."
"I don't care if all the world hears what I say," cried Mr. Beaumont hastily: but, as if suppressing his rising indignation, he, with a milder look and tone, added, "I cannot conceive, my dear mother, why you are always so afraid of being overheard."
"Servants, my dear, make such mischief, you know, by misunderstanding and misrepresenting every thing they hear; and they repeat things so oddly, and raise such strange reports!"
"True--very true indeed, ma'am," said Mr. Beaumont. "You are quite right, and I beg pardon for being so hasty--I wish you could teach me a little of your patience and prudence."
"Prudence! ah! my dear Edward, 'tis only time and sad experience of the world can teach that to people of
our open tempers. I was at your age ten times more imprudent and unsuspicious than you are."
"Were you, ma'am?--But I don't think I am unsuspicious. I was when I was a boy--I wish we could continue children always in some things. I hate suspicion in any body--but more than in any one else, I hate it in myself. And yet--"
Mr. Beaumont hesitated, and his mother instantly went on with a fluent panegyric upon the hereditary unsuspiciousness of his temper.
"But, madam, were you not saying something to me about Miss Hunter?"
"Was I?--Oh, I was merely going to say, that I was sorry you did not know she was going this morning, that you might have taken leave of her, poor thing!"
"Take leave of her! ma'am: I bowed to her, and wished her a good morning, when I met her just now, and she told me she was only going to the hall for a day. Surely no greater leave-taking was requisite, when I am to see the lady again to-morrow, I presume."
"That is not quite so certain as she thinks, poor soul! I told her I would send for her again to-morrow, just to keep up her spirits at leaving me. Walk this way, Edward, under the shade of the trees, for I am dead with the heat; and you, too, look so hot! I say I am not so sure that it would be prudent to have her here so much, especially whilst Mr. Palmer is with us, you know--" Mrs. Beaumont paused, as if waiting for an assent, or a dissent, or a leading hint how to proceed: but her son persisting in perverse silence, she was forced to repeat, "You know, Edward, my dear, you know?"
"I don't know, indeed, ma'am."
"You don't know!"
"Faith, not I, ma'am. I don't know, for the soul of me, what Mr. Palmer's coming has to do with Miss Hunter's going. There's room enough in the house, I suppose, for each of them, and all of us to play our parts. As to the rest, the young lady's coming or going is quite a matter of indifference to me, except, of course, as far as politeness and hospitality go. But all that I leave to you, who do the honours for me so well."
Mrs. Beaumont's ideas were utterly thrown out of their order by this speech, no part of which was exactly what she wished or expected: not that any of the sentiments it contained or suggested were new to her; but she was not prepared to meet them thus clothed in distinct words, and in such a compact form. She had drawn up her forces for battle in an order which this unexpectedly decisive movement of the enemy discomfited; and a less able tactician might have been, in these circumstances, not only embarrassed, but utterly defeated: yet, however unprepared for this sudden shock, with admirable generalship our female Hannibal, falling back in the centre, admitted him to advance impetuous and triumphant, till she had him completely surrounded.
"My being of age in a few days," continued Mr. Beaumont, "will not make any difference, surely; I depend upon it, that you will always invite whomever you like to this house, of which I hope, my dear mother, you will always do me the favour to be the mistress--till I marry, at least. For my wife's feelings," added he, smiling, "I can't engage, before I have her."
"And before we know who she is to be," said Mrs. Beaumont, carelessly. "Time enough, as you say, to think of that. Besides, there are few women in the world, I know scarcely one, with whom, in the relation of mother and daughter-in-law, I should wish to live. But wherever I live, my dear son, as long as I have a house, I hope you will always do me the justice and the pleasure to consider yourself as its master. Heaven knows I shall never give any other man a right to dispute with you the sovereignty of my castle, or my cottage, whichever it may be. As to the rest," pursued Mrs. Beaumont, "you cannot marry against my wishes, my dear Edward; for your wishes on this, as on all other subjects, will ever govern mine."
Her son kissed her hand with warm gratitude.
"You will not, I hope, think that I seek to prolong my regency, or to assume undue power or influence in affairs," continued Mrs. Beaumont, "if I hint to you in general terms what I think may contribute to your happiness. You must afterwards decide for yourself; and are now, as you have ever been, master, to do as you please."
"Too much--too much. I have had too much liberty, and have too little acquired the habit of commanding my will and my passions by my reason. Of this I am sensible. My excellent friend, Captain Walsingham, told me, some years ago, that this was the fault of my character, and he charged me to watch over myself; and so I have; but not so strictly, I fear, as if he had watched along with me.----Well, ma'am, you were going to give me some advice; I am all attention."
"My dear son, Captain Walsingham showed his judgment more, perhaps, in pointing out causes than effects. The weakness of a fond mother, I am sensible, did indulge you in childhood, and, perhaps, more imprudently in youth, with an unlimited liberty to judge and act for yourself. Your mother's system of education came, alas! more from her heart than her head. Captain Walsingham himself cannot be more sensible of my errors than I am."
"Captain Walsingham, believe me, mother, never mentioned this in reproach to you. He is not a man to teach a son to see his mother's errors--if she had any. He always spoke of you with the greatest respect. And since I must, at my own expense, do him justice, it was, I well remember, upon some occasion where I spoke too hastily, and insisted upon my will in opposition to yours, madam, that Captain Walsingham took me aside, and represented to me the fault into which my want of command over myself had betrayed me. This he did so forcibly, that I have never from that hour to this (I flatter myself) on any material occasion, forgotten the impression he made on my mind. But, madam, I interrupt you: you were going to give me your advice about--"
"No, no--no advice--no advice; you are, in my opinion, fully adequate to the direction of your own conduct. I was merely going to suggest, that, since you have not been accustomed to control from a mother, and since you have, thank Heaven! a high spirit, that would sooner break than bend, it must be essential to your happiness to have a wife of a compliant, gentle temper; not fond of disputing the right, or attached to her own opinions; not one who would be tenacious of rule, and unseasonably inflexible."
"Unseasonably inflexible! Undoubtedly, ma'am. Yet I should despise a mean-spirited wife."
"I am sure you would. But compliance that proceeds from affection, you know, can never deserve to be called mean-spirited--nor would it so appear to you. I am persuaded that there is a degree of fondness, of affection, enthusiastic affection, which disposes the temper always to a certain softness and yieldingness, which, I conceive, would be peculiarly attractive to you, and essential to your happiness: in short, I know your temper could not bear contradiction."
"Oh, indeed, ma'am, you are quite mistaken."
"Quite mistaken! and at the very moment he reddens with anger, because I contradict, even in the softest, gentlest manner in my power, his opinion of himself!"
"You don't understand me, indeed, you don't understand me," said Mr. Beaumont, beating with his whip the leaves of a bush which was near him. "Either you don't understand me, or I don't understand you. I am much more able to bear contradiction than you think I am, provided it be direct. But I do not love--what I am doing at this instant," added he, smiling--"I don't love beating about the bush."
"Look there now!--Strange creatures you men are! So like he looks to his poor father, who used to tell me that he loved to be contradicted, and yet who would not, I am sure, have lived three days with any woman who had ventured to contradict him directly. Whatever influence I obtained in his heart, and whatever happiness we enjoyed in our union, I attribute to my trusting to my observations on his character rather than to his own account of himself. Therefore I may be permitted to claim some judgment of what would suit your hereditary temper."
"Certainly, ma'am, certainly. But to come to the point at once, may I ask this plain question--Do you, by these reflections, mean to allude to any particular persons? Is there any woman in the world you at this instant would wish me to marry?"
"Yes--Miss Walsingham."
Mr. Beaumont started with joyful surprise, when his mother thus immediately pronounced the very name he wished to hear.
"You surprise and delight me, my dear mother!"
"Surprise!--How can that be?--Surely you must know my high opinion of Miss Walsingham. But----"
"But--you added
but----"
"There is no woman who may not be taxed with a
but--yet it is not for her friend to lower her merit. My only objection to her is--I shall infallibly affront you, if I name it."
"Name it! name it! You will not affront me."
"My only objection to her then is, her superiority. She is so superior, that, forgive me, I don't know any man, yourself not excepted, who is at all her equal."
"I think precisely as you do, and rejoice."
"Rejoice? why there I cannot sympathize with you. I own, as a mother, I should feel a little--a little mortified to see my son not the superior; and when the comparison is to be daily and hourly made, and to last for life, and all the world to see it as well as myself. I own I have a mother's vanity. I should wish to see my son always what he has hitherto been--the superior, and master in his own house."
Mr. Beaumont made no reply to these insinuations, but walked on in silence; and his mother, unable to determine precisely whether the vexation apparent in his countenance proceeded from disapprobation of her observations, or from their working the effect she desired upon his pride, warily waited till he should betray some decisive symptom of his feelings. But she waited in vain--he was resolved not to speak.
"There is not a woman upon earth I should wish so much to have as a daughter-in-law, a companion, and a friend, as Miss Walsingham. You must be convinced," resumed Mrs. Beaumont, "so far as I am concerned, it is the most desirable thing in the world. But I should think it my duty to put my own feelings and wishes out of the question, and to make myself prefer whomsoever, all things considered, my judgment tells me would make you the happiest."
"And whom would your judgment prefer, madam?"
"Why--I am not at liberty to tell--unless I could explain all my reasons. Indeed, I know not what to say."
"Dear madam, explain all your reasons, or we shall never understand one another, and never come to an end of these half explanations."
Here they were interrupted by seeing Mr. Twigg, a courtly clergyman, coming towards them. Beaumont was obliged to endure his tiresome flattery upon the beauties of Beaumont Park, and upon the judicious improvements that were making, had been made, and would, no doubt, be very soon made. Mrs. Beaumont, at last, relieved his or her own impatience by commissioning Mr. Twigg to walk round the improvements by himself. By himself she insisted it should be, that she might have his unbiassed judgment upon the two lines which had been marked for the new belt or screen; and he was also to decide whether they should call it a belt or a screen.--Honoured with this commission, he struck off into the walk to which Mrs. Beaumont pointed, and began his solitary progress.
Mr. Beaumont then urged his mother to go on with her explanation. Mrs. Beaumont thought that she could not hazard much by flattering the vanity of a man on that subject on which perhaps it is most easily flattered; therefore, after sufficient delicacy of circumlocution, she informed her son that there was a young lady who was actually dying for love of him; whose extreme fondness would make her live but in him; and who, besides having a natural ductility of character, and softness of temper, was perfectly free from any formidable superiority of intellect, and had the most exalted opinion of his capacity, as well as of his character and accomplishments; in short, such an enthusiastic adoration, as would induce that belief in the infallibility of a husband, which must secure to him the fullest enjoyment of domestic peace, power, and pre-eminence.
Mr. Beaumont seemed less moved than his mother had calculated that the vanity of man must be, by such a declaration--discovery it could not be called. "If I am to take all this seriously, madam," replied he, laughing, "and if,
au pied de la lettre my vanity is to believe that this damsel is dying for love; yet, still I have so little chivalry in my nature, that I cannot understand how it would add to my happiness to sacrifice myself to save her life. That I am well suited to her, I am as willing as vanity can make me to believe; but how is it to be proved that the lady is suited to me?"
"My dear, these things do not admit of logical proof."
"Well--moral, sentimental, or any kind of proof you please."
"Have you no pity? and is not pity akin to love?"
"Akin! Oh, yes, ma'am, it is akin; but for that very reason it may not be a friend--relations, you know, in these days, are as often enemies as friends."
"Vile pun! far-fetched quibble!--provoking boy!--But I see you are not in a humour to be serious, so I will take another time to talk to you of this affair."
"Now or never, ma'am, for mercy's sake!"
"Mercy's sake! you who show none--Ah! this is the way with you men; all this is play to you, but death to us."
"Death! dear ma'am; ladies, you know as well as I do, don't die of love in these days--you would not make a fool of your son."
"I could not; nor could any other woman--that is clear: but amongst us, I am afraid we have, undesignedly indeed, but irremediably, made a fool of this poor confiding girl."
"But, ma'am, in whom did she confide? not in me, I'll swear. I have nothing to reproach myself with, thank God!--My conscience is clear; I have been as ungallant as possible. I have been as cruel as my nature would permit. I am sure no one can charge me with giving false promises--I scarcely speak--nor false hopes, for I scarcely look at the young lady."
"So, then, you know who the young lady in question is?"
"Perhaps I ought not to pretend to know."
"That would be useless affectation, alas! for I fear many know, and have seen, and heard, much more than you have--or I either."
Here Mrs. Beaumont observed that her son's colour changed, and that he suddenly grew serious: aware that she had now touched upon the right chord, she struck it again "with a master's hand and prophet's fire." She declared that all the world took it for granted that Miss Hunter was to be married to Mr. Beaumont; that it was talked of every where; that she was asked continually by her correspondents, when the marriage was to take place?--in confirmation of which assertion, she produced bundles of letters from her pockets, from Mrs. and Miss, and from Lady This, and Lady That.
"Nay," continued she, "if it were confined even to the circle of one's private friends and acquaintance, I should not so much mind it, for one might contradict, and have it contradicted, and one might send the poor thing away to some watering-place, and the report might die away, as reports do--sometimes. But all that sort of thing it is too late to think of now--for the thing is public! quite public! got into the newspapers! Here's a paragraph I cut out this very morning from my paper, lest the poor girl should see it. The other day, I believe you saw it yourself, there was something of the same sort. 'We hear that, as soon as he comes of age, Mr. Beaumont, of Beaumont Park, is to lead to the altar of Hymen, Miss Hunter, sister to Sir John Hunter, of Devonshire.' Well,--after you left the room, Albina took up the paper you had been reading; and when she saw this paragraph, I thought she would have dropped. I did not know what to do. Whatever I could say, you know, would only make it worse. I tried to turn it off, and talked of twenty things; but it would not do--no, no, it is too serious for that: well, though I believe she would rather have put her hand in the fire, she had the courage to speak to me about it herself."
"And what did she say, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Beaumont, eagerly.
"Poor simple creature! she had but one idea--that you had seen it! that she would not for the world you had read it. What would you think of her--she should never be able to meet you again--What could she do? It must be contradicted--somebody must contradict it. Then she worried me to have it contradicted in the papers. I told her I did not well know how that could be done, and urged that it would be much more prudent not to fix attention upon the parties by more paragraphs. But she was
not in a state to think of prudence;--
no. What would you think was the only idea in her mind?--If I would not write, she would write that minute herself, and sign her name. This, and a thousand wild things, she said, till I was forced to be quite angry, and to tell her she must be governed by those who had more discretion than herself. Then she was so subdued, so ashamed--really my heart bled for her, even whilst I scolded her. But it is quite necessary to be harsh with her; for she has no more foresight, nor art, nor command of herself sometimes, than a child of five years old. I assure you, I was rejoiced to get her away before Mr. Palmer came, for a new eye coming into a family sees so much one wouldn't wish to be seen. You know it would be terrible to have the poor young creature
commit and expose herself to a stranger so early in life. Indeed, as it is, I am persuaded no one will ever think of marrying her, if you do not.----In worldly prudence--but of that she has not an atom--in worldly prudence she might do better, or as well, certainly; for her fortune will be very considerable. Sir John means to add to it, when he gets the Wigram estate; and the old uncle, Wigram, can't live for ever. But poor Albina, I dare swear, does not know what fortune she is to have, nor what you have. Love! love! all for love!--and all in vain. She is certainly very much to be pitied."
Longer might Mrs. Beaumont have continued in monologue, without danger of interruption from her son, who stood resolved to hear the utmost sum of all that she should say on the subject. Never interrupting her, he only filled certain pauses, that seemed expectant of reply, with the phrases--"I am very sorry, indeed, ma'am"--and, "Really, ma'am, it is out of my power to help it." But Mrs. Beaumont observed that the latter phrase had been omitted as she proceeded--and "
I am very sorry indeed, ma'am," he repeated less as words of course, and more and more as if they came from the heart. Having so far, successfully, as she thought, worked upon her son's good-nature, and seeing her daughter through the trees coming towards them, she abruptly exclaimed, "Promise me, at all events, dearest Edward, I conjure you; promise me that you will not make proposals
any where else, without letting me know of it beforehand,--and give me time," joining her hands in a supplicating attitude, "give me but a few weeks, to prepare my poor little Albina for this sad, sad stroke!"
"I promise you, madam, that I will not, directly or indirectly, make an offer of my hand or heart to any woman, without previously letting you know my determination. And as for a few weeks, more or less--my mother, surely, need not supplicate, but simply let me know her wishes--even without her reasons, they would have been sufficient with me. Do I satisfy you now, madam?"
"More than satisfy--as you ever do, ever will, my dear son."
"But you will require no more on this subject--I must be left master of myself."
"Indubitably--certainly--master of yourself--most certainly--of course."
Mr. Beaumont was going to add something beginning with, "It is better, at once, to tell you, that I can never--" But Mrs. Beaumont stopped him with, "Hush! my dear, hush! not a word more, for here is Amelia, and I cannot talk on this subject before her, you know.----My beloved Amelia, how languid you look! I fear that, to please me, you have taken too long a walk; and Mr. Palmer won't see you in your best looks, after all.--What note is that you have in your hand?"
"A note from Miss Walsingham, mamma."
"Oh! the chickenpox! take caer! letters, notes, every thing may convey the infection," cried Mrs. Beaumont, snatching the paper. "How could dearest Miss Walsingham be so giddy as to answer my note, after what I said in my postscript!--How did this note come?"
"By the little postboy, mamma; I met him at the porter's lodge."
"But what is all this strange thing?" said Mrs. Beaumont, after having read the note twice over.--It contained a certificate from the parish minister and churchwardens, apothecary, and surgeon, bearing witness, one and all, that there was no individual, man, woman, or child, in the parish, or within three miles of Walsingham House, who was even under any suspicion of having the chickenpox.
"My father desires me to send Mrs. Beaumont the enclosed clean bill of health--by which she will find that we need be no longer subject to quarantine; and, unless some other reasons prevent our having the pleasure of seeing her, we may hope soon that she will favour us with her long promised visit.
"Yours, sincerely,
"MARIANNE WALSINGHAM."
"I am delighted," said Mrs. Beaumont, "to find it was a false report, and that we shall not be kept, the Lord knows how long, away from the dear Walsinghams."
"Then we can go to them to-morrow, can't we, mamma? And I will write, and say so, shall I?" said Amelia.
"No need to write, my dear; if we promise for any particular day, and are not able to go, that seems unkind, and is taken ill, you see. And as Mr. Palmer is coming, we can't leave him."
"But he will go with us surely," said Mr. Beaumont. "The Walsinghams are as much his relations as we are; and if he comes two hundred miles to see us, he will, surely, go seven to see them."
"True," said Mrs. Beaumont; "but it is civil and kind to leave him to fix his own day, poor old gentleman. After so long a journey, we must allow him some rest. Consider, he can't go galloping about as you do, dear Edward."
"But," said Amelia, "as the Walsinghams know he is to be in the country, they will of course come to see him immediately."
"How do they know he is to be in the country?"
"I thought--I took it for granted, you told them so, mamma, when you wrote about not going to Walsingham House, on Mr. Walsingham's birthday."
"No, my dear; I was so full of the chickenpox, and terror about you, I could think of nothing else."
"Thank you, dear mother--but now that is out of the question, I had best write a line by the return of the postboy, to say, that Mr. Palmer is to be here to-day, and that he stays only one week."
"Certainly! love--but let me write about it, for I have particular reasons. And, my dear, now we are by ourselves, let me caution you not to mention that Mr. Palmer can stay but one week: in the first place it is uncivil to him, for we are not sure of it, and it is like driving him away; and in the next place, there are reasons I can't explain to you, that know so little of the world, my dear Amelia--but, in general, it is always foolish to mention things."
"Always foolish to mention things!" cried Mr. Beaumont, smiling.
"Of this sort, I mean," said Mrs. Beaumont, a little disconcerted.
"Of what sort?" persisted her son.
"Hush! my dear; here's the postboy and the ass."
"Any letters, my good little boy? Any letters for me?"
"I has, madam, a many for the house. I does not know for who--the bag will tell," said the boy, unstrapping the bag from his shoulders.
"Give it to me, then," said Mrs. Beaumont: "I am anxious for letters always." She was peculiarly anxious now to open the post-bag, to put a stop to a conversation which did not please her. Whilst seated on a rustic seat, under a spreading beech, our heroine, with her accustomed looks of mystery, examined the seals of her numerous and important letters, to ascertain whether they had been opened at the post-office, or whether their folds might have been pervious to any prying eye. Her son tore the covers off the newspapers; and, as he unfolded one, Amelia leaned upon his shoulder, and whispered softly, "Any news of the fleet, brother?"
Mrs. Beaumont, than whom Fine-ear himself had not quicker auditory nerves, especially for indiscreet whispers, looked up from her letters, and examined, unperceived, the countenance of Amelia, who was searching with eagerness the columns of the paper. As Mr. Beaumont turned over the leaf, Amelia looked up, and, seeing her mother's eyes fixed upon her, coloured; and from want of presence of mind to invent any thing better to say, asked if her mother wished to have the papers?
"No," said Mrs. Beaumont, coldly, "not I, Amelia; I am not such a politician as you are grown."
Amelia withdrew her attention, or at least her eyes, from the paper, and had recourse to the beech-tree, the beautiful foliage of which she studied with profound attention.
"God bless me! here's news! news of the fleet!" cried Beaumont, turning suddenly to his sister; and then recollecting himself, to his mother. "Ma'am, they say there has been a great engagement between the French and Spaniards, and the English--particulars not known yet: but, they say, ten sail of the French line are taken, and four Spaniards blown up, and six Spanish men-of-war disabled, and a treasure-ship taken. Walsingham must have been in the engagement--My horse!--I'll gallop over this minute, and know from the Walsinghams if they have seen the papers, and if there's any thing more about it in their papers."
"Gallop! my dearest Edward," said his mother, standing in his path; "but you don't consider Mr. Palmer--"
"Damn Mr. Palmer! I beg your pardon, mother--I mean no harm to the old gentleman--friend of my father's--great respect for him--I'll be back by dinner-time, back ready to receive him--he can't be here till six--only five by me, now! Ma'am, I shall have more than time to dress, too, cool as a cucumber, ready to receive the good old fellow."
"In one short hour, my dear!--seven miles to Walsingham House, and seven back again, and all the time you will waste there, and to dress too--only consider!"
"I do consider, ma'am; and have considered every thing in the world. My horse will carry me there and back in fifty minutes, easily, and five to spare, I'll be bound. I sha'n't light--so where's the paper? I'm off."
"Well--order your horse, and leave me the paper, at least, while he is getting ready. Ride by this way, and you will find us here--where is this famous paragraph?"
Beaumont drew the paper crumpled from the pocket into which he had thrust it--ran off for his horse, and quickly returned mounted. "Give me the paper, good friends!--I'm off."
"Away, then, my dear; since you will heat yourself for nothing. But only let me point out to you," said she, holding the paper fast whilst she held it up to him, "that this whole report rests on no authority whatever; not a word of it in the gazette; not a line from the admiralty; no official account; no bulletin; no credit given to the rumour at Lloyd's; stocks the same.--And how did the news come? Not even the news-writer pretends it came through any the least respectable channel. A frigate in latitude the Lord knows what! saw a fleet in a fog --might be Spanish--might be French--might be English--spoke another frigate some days afterwards, who heard firing: well--firing says nothing. But the frigate turns this firing into an engagement, and a victory; and presently communicates the news to a collier, and the collier tells another collier, and so it goes up the Thames, to some wonder-maker, standing agape for a paragraph, to secure a dinner. To the press the news goes, just as our paper is coming out; and to be sure we shall have a contradiction and an apology in our next."
"Well, ma'am; but I will ask Mr. Walsingham what he thinks, and show him the paper."
"Do, if you like it, my dear; I never control you; but don't overheat yourself for nothing. What can Mr. Walsingham, or all the Walsinghams in the world, tell more than we can? and as to showing him the paper, you know he takes the same paper. But don't let me detain you.--Amelia, who is that coming through the gate? Mr. Palmer's servant, I protest!"
"Well; it can't be, I see!" said Beaumont, dismounting.
"Take away your master's horse--quick--quick!--Amelia, my love, to dress! I must have you ready to receive your godfather's blessing. Consider, Mr. Palmer was your father's earliest friend; and besides, he is a relation, though distant; and it is always a good and prudent thing to keep up relationships. Many a fine estate has come from very distant relations most unexpectedly. And even independently of all relationships, when friendships are properly cultivated, there's no knowing to what they may lead;--not that I look to any thing of that sort here. But before you see Mr. Palmer, just as we are walking home, and quite to ourselves, let me give you some leading hints about this old gentleman's character, which I have gathered, no matter how, for your advantage, my dear children. He is a humourist, and must not be opposed in any of his oddities: he is used to be waited upon, and attended to, as all these men are who have lived in the West Indies. A
bon vivant, of course. Edward, produce your best wines--the pilau and currie, and all that, leave to me. I had special notice of his love for a john-doree, and a john-doree I have for him. But now I am going to give you the master-key to his heart. Like all men who have made great fortunes, he loves to feel continually the importance his wealth confers; he loves to feel that wealth does every thing; is superior to every thing--to birth and titles especially: it is his pride to think himself, though a commoner, far above any man who condescends to take a title. He hates persons of quality; therefore, whilst he is here, not a word in favour of any titled person. Forget the whole house of peers--send them all to Coventry--all to Coventry, remember.--And, now you have the key to his heart, go and dress, to be ready for him."
Having thus given her private instructions, and advanced her secret plans, Mrs. Beaumont repaired to her toilet, well satisfied with her morning's work. _