"Granting that; you forget that all this takes time, and that Palmer will be gone to the West Indies before they can bring out their proposal; and as soon as he is gone, and has left his will, as he means to do, with me, you and I have the game in our own hands. It is very extraordinary to me that you do not seem to understand my play, though I explained the whole to Albina; and I thought she had made you comprehend the necessity for my _seeming,_ for this one week, to be less your friend than I could wish, because of your t.i.tle, and that odd whim of Palmer, you know: but I am sure we understand one another now."

"Excuse me," said the invincible Sir John: "I confess, Mrs. Beaumont, you have so much more abilities, and _finesse_, and all that sort of thing, than I have, that I cannot help being afraid of--of not understanding the business rightly. In business there is nothing like understanding one another, and going on sure grounds. There has been so much going backwards and forwards, and explanations and manoeuvres, that I am not clear how it is; nor do I feel secure even that I have the honour of your approbation."

"What! not when I have a.s.sured you of it, Sir John, in the most unequivocal manner?"

It was singular that the only person to whom in this affair Mrs.

Beaumont spoke the real truth should not believe her. Sir John Hunter continued obstinately suspicious and incredulous. He had just heard that his uncle Wigram, his rich uncle Wigram, was taken ill, and not likely to recover. This intelligence had also reached Mrs. Beaumont, and she was anxious to secure the baronet and the Wigram fortune for her daughter; but nothing she could say seemed to satisfy him that she was not double-dealing. At last, to prove to him her sincerity, she gave him what he required, and what alone, he said, could make his mind easy, could bring him to make up his mind--_a written a.s.surance_ of her approbation of his addresses to Amelia. With this he was content; "for,"

said he, "what is written remains, and there can be no misunderstandings in future, or changing of minds."

It was agreed between these confidential friends, that Sir John should depart, _as it were_, displeased; and she begged that he would not return till Mr. Palmer should have left the country.

Now there was a numerous tribe of _hangers-on_, who were in the habit of frequenting Beaumont Park, whom Mrs. Beaumont loved to see at her house; because, besides making her feel her own importance, they were frequently useful to carry on the subordinate parts of her perpetual manoeuvres. Among these secondary personages who attended Mrs. Beaumont abroad to increase her consequence in the eyes of common spectators, and who at home filled the stage, and added to the bustle and effect, her chief favourites were Mr. Twigg (the same gentleman who was deputed to decide upon the belt or the screen) and Captain Lightbody. Mr. Twigg was the most, elegant flatterer of the two, but Captain Lightbody was the most a.s.sured, and upon the whole made his way the best. He was a handsome man, had a good address, could tell a good story, sing a good song, and _make things go off_ well, when there was company; so that he was a prodigious a.s.sistance to the mistress of the house. Then he danced with the young ladies when they had no other partners; he mounted guard regularly beside the piano-forte, or the harp, when the ladies were playing; and at dinner it was always the etiquette for him to sit beside Miss Beaumont, or Miss Hunter, when the gentlemen guests were not such as Mrs. Beaumont thought ent.i.tled to that honour, or such as she deemed _safe_ companions. These arrangements imply that Captain Lightbody thought himself in Mrs. Beaumont's confidence: and so he was to a certain degree, just enough to flatter him into doing her high or low behests. Whenever she had a report to circulate, or to contradict, Captain Lightbody was put in play; and no man could be better calculated for this purpose, both from his love of talking, and of locomotion. He galloped about from place to place, and from one great house to another; knew all the lords and ladies, and generals and colonels, and brigade-majors and aides-de-camp, in the land. Could any mortal be better qualified to fetch and carry news for Mrs. Beaumont?

Besides news, it was his office to carry compliments, and to speed the intercourse, not perhaps from soul to soul, but from house to house, which is necessary in a visiting country to keep up the character of an agreeable neighbour. Did Mrs. Beaumont forget to send a card of invitation, or neglect to return a visit, Lightbody was to set it to rights for her, Lightbody, the ready bearer of pretty notes, the maker always, the fabricator sometimes, of the civilest speeches imaginable.

This expert speechifier, this ever idle, ever busy scamperer, our heroine dispatched to engage a neighbouring family to pay her a morning visit the next day, just about the time which was fixed for her going to see the Walsinghams. The usual caution was given. "Pray, Lightbody, do not let my name be used; do not let me be mentioned; but take it upon yourself, and say, as if from yourself, that you have reason to believe I take it ill that they have not been here lately. And then you can mention the hour that would be most convenient. But let me have nothing to do with it. I must not appear in it on any account."

In consequence of Captain Lightbody's faithful execution of his secret instructions, a barouche full of morning visitors drove to the door, just at the time when Mrs. Beaumont had proposed to set out for Walsingham House. Mrs. Beaumont, with a well-dissembled look of vexation, exclaimed, as she looked out of the window at the carriage, "How provoking! Who can these people be? I hope Martin will say I am not at home. Ring--ring, Amelia. Oh, it's too late, they have seen me! and Martin, stupid creature! has let them in."

Mr. Palmer was much discomfited, and grew more and more impatient when these troublesome visitors protracted their stay, and proposed a walk to see some improvements in the grounds.

"But, my good Mistress Beaumont," said he, "you know we are engaged to our cousin Walsingham this morning; and if you will give me leave, I will go on before you with Mr. Beaumont, and we can say what detains you."

Disconcerted by this simple determination of this straight-forward, plain-spoken old gentleman, Mrs. Beaumont saw that farther delay on her part would be not only inefficacious, but dangerous. She now was eager to be relieved from the difficulties which she had herself contrived.

She would not, for any consideration, have trusted Mr. Palmer to pay this visit without her: therefore, by an able counter-movement, she extricated herself not only without loss, but with advantage, from this perilous situation. She made a handsome apology to her visitors for being obliged to run away from them. "She would leave Amelia to have the pleasure of showing them the grounds."

Mrs. Beaumont was irresistible in her arrangements. Amelia, disappointed and afraid to show how deeply she felt the disappointment, was obliged to stay to do the honours of Beaumont Park, whilst her mother drove off rejoicing in half the success, at least, of her stratagem; but even as a politician she used upon every occasion too much artifice. It was said of Cardinal Mazarin, he is a great politician, but in all his politics there is one capital defect--"_C'est qu'il veut toujours tromper_."

"How tiresome those people were! I thought we never should have got away from them," said Mrs. Beaumont. "What possessed them to come this morning, and to pay such a horrid long visit? Besides, those Duttons, at all times, are the most stupid creatures upon the face of the earth; I cannot endure them; so awkward and ill-bred too! and yet of a good family--who could think it? They are people one must see, but they are absolutely insufferable."

"Insufferable!" said Mr. Palmer; "why, my good madam, then you have the patience of a martyr; for you suffered them so patiently, that I never should have guessed you suffered at all. I protest I thought they were friends and favourites of yours, and that you were very glad to see them."

"Well, well, 'tis the way of the world," continued Mr. Palmer; "this sort of--what do you call it? double-dealing about visitors, goes on every where, Madam Beaumont. But how do I know, that when I go away, you may not be as glad to get rid of me as you were to get away from these Duttons?" added he, in a tone of forced jocularity. "How do I know, but that the minute my back is turned, you may not begin to take me to pieces in my turn, and say, 'That old Palmer! he was the most tiresome, humoursome, strange, old-fashioned fellow; I thought we should never have got rid of him?"

"My dear, dear sir, how can you speak in such a manner?" cried Mrs.

Beaumont, who had made several vain attempts to interrupt this speech.

"You, who are our best friend! is it possible you could suspect? Is there no difference to be made between friends and common acquaintance?"

"I am sure I hope there is," said Mr. Palmer, smiling.

There was something so near the truth in Mr. Palmer's raillery, that Mrs. Beaumont could not take it with as much easy unconcern as the occasion required, especially in the presence of her son, who maintained a provoking silence. Unhappy indeed are those, who cannot, in such moments of distress, in their own families, and in their nearest connexions, find any relief from their embarra.s.sments, and who look round in vain for one to be _responsible_ for their sincerity. Mrs.

Beaumont sat uneasy and almost disconcerted. Mr. Palmer felt for his snuff-box, his usual consolation; but it was not in his pocket: he had left it on his table. Now Mrs. Beaumont was relieved, for she had something to do, and something to say with her wonted politeness: in spite of all remonstrance from Mr. Palmer, her man Martin was sent back for the snuff-box; and conjectures about his finding it, and his being able to overtake them before they arrived at Walsingham house, supplied conversation for a mile or two.

"Here's Martin coming back full gallop, I vow," said Miss Hunter, who could also talk on this topic.

"Come, come, my good lady," said Mr. Palmer, (taking the moment when the young lady had turned her back as she stretched out of the carriage for the pleasure of seeing Martin gallop)--"Come, come, my good Mrs.

Beaumont, shake hands and be friends, and hang the Duttons! I did not mean to vex you by what I said. I am not so polite as I should be, I know, and you perhaps are a little too polite. But that is no great harm, especially in a woman."

Martin and the snuff-box came up at this instant; and all was apparently as well as ever. Yet Mrs. Beaumont, who valued a reputation for sincerity as much as Chartres valued a reputation for honesty, and nearly upon the same principle, was seriously vexed that even this transient light had been let in upon her real character. To such _accidents_ duplicity is continually subject.

CHAPTER IX.

"Led by Simplicity divine, She pleased, and never tried to shine; She gave to chance each unschool'd feature, And left her cause to sense and nature."--MORE.

Arrived at Walsingham Park, they met Miss Walsingham walking at some distance from the house.

"Is Captain Walsingham come?" was the first question asked. "No, but expected every hour."

That he had not actually arrived was a comfortable reprieve to Mrs.

Beaumont. Breathing more freely, and in refreshed spirits, she prepared to alight from her carriage, to walk to the house with Miss Walsingham, as Mr. Palmer proposed. Miss Hunter, who was dressed with uncommon elegance, remonstrated in favour of her delicate slippers: not that she named the real object of her solicitude--no; she had not spent so much time with Mrs. Beaumont, that great mistress of the art of apologizing, without learning at least the inferior practices of the trade. Of course she had all the little common arts of excuse ever ready: and instead of saying that she did not like to walk because she was afraid to spoil her shoes, she protested she was afraid of the heat, and could not walk so far. But Mr. Beaumont had jumped out of the carriage, and Mrs.

Beaumont did not wish that he should walk home _tete-a-tete_ with Miss Walsingham; therefore Miss Hunter's remonstrances were of no avail.

"My love, you, will not be heated, for our walk is through this charming shady grove; and if you are tired, here's my son will give you his arm."

Satisfied with this arrangement, the young lady, thus supported, found it possible to walk. Mr. Palmer walked his own pace, looking round at the beauties of the place, and desiring that n.o.body might mind him. This was his way, and Mrs. Beaumont never teased him with talking to him, when he did not seem to be in the humour for it. She, who made something of every thing, began to manage the conversation with her other companions during the walk, so as to favour her views upon the several parties. Pursuing her principle, that love is in men's minds generally independent of esteem, and believing that her son might be rendered afraid of the superiority of Miss Walsingham's understanding, Mrs.

Beaumont took treacherous pains to _draw her out_. Starting from chance seemingly, as she well knew how, a subject of debate, she went from talking of the late marriage of some neighbouring couple, to discuss a question on which she believed that Miss Walsingham's opinion would differ from that of her son. The point was, whether a wife should or should not have pin-money. Miss Walsingham thought that a wife's accepting it would tend to establish a separate interest between married people. Mr. Beaumont, on the contrary, was of opinion, that a wife's having a separate allowance would prevent disputes. So Miss Hunter thought, of course, for she had been prepared to be precisely of Mr.

Beaumont's opinion; but reasons she had none in its support. Indeed, she said with a pretty simper, she thought that women had nothing to do with reason or reasoning; that she thought a woman who really loved _any body_ was always of that person's opinion; and especially in a wife she did not see of what use reasoning and _all that_ could be, except to make a woman contradict, and be odd, and fond of ruling: that for her part she had no pretensions to any understanding, and if she had ever so much, she should be glad, she declared upon her honour, to get rid of it if she could; for what use could it possibly be of to her, when it must be the husband's understanding that must always judge and rule, and a wife ought only to obey, and be always of the opinion of the man of her choice?--Having thus made her profession of folly in broken sentences, with pretty confusion and all-becoming graces, she leaned upon Mr.

Beaumont's arm with a bewitching air of languid delicacy, that solicited support. Mrs. Beaumont, suppressing a sigh, which, however, she took care that her son should hear, turned to Miss Walsingham, and, in a whisper, owned that she could not help loving abilities, and spirit too, even in her own s.e.x. Then she observed aloud, that much might be urged on her side of the question with regard to pin-money; for not only, as Miss Walsingham justly said, it might tend to make a separate interest between husband and wife, but the wife would probably be kept in total ignorance of her husband's affairs; and _that_ in some cases might be very disadvantageous, as some women are more capable, from their superior understanding, of managing every thing than most men, indeed, than any man she could name.

Even under favour of this pretty compliment, which was plainly directed by a glance of Mrs. Beaumont's eye, Miss Walsingham would not accept of this painful pre-eminence. She explained and made it clear, that she had not any ambition to rule or manage.

"That I can readily believe," said Mr. Beaumont; "for I have observed, that it is not always the women who are the most able to decide who are the most ambitious to govern."

This observation either was not heard or was not understood by Miss Hunter, whose whole soul was occupied in settling some fold of her drapery: but Mr. Beaumont's speech had its full effect on Mrs. Beaumont, who bit her lip, and looked reproachfully at her son, as if she thought this an infringement of his promised truce. A moment afterwards she felt the imprudence of her own reproachful look, and was sensible that she would have done better not to have fixed the opinion or feeling in her son's mind by noticing it thus with displeasure. Recovering, herself, for she never was disconcerted for more than half a minute, she pa.s.sed on with easy grace to discuss the merits of the heroine of some new novel--an historic novel, which gave her opportunity of appealing to Miss Walsingham on some disputed points of history. She dexterously attempted to draw her _well-informed_ young friend into a display of literature which might alarm Mr. Beaumont. His education had in some respects been shamefully neglected; for his mother had calculated that ignorance would ensure dependence. He had endeavoured to supply, at a late period of his education, the defects of its commencement; but he was sensible that he had not supplied all his deficiencies, and he was apt to feel, with painful impatient sensibility, his inferiority, whenever literary subjects were introduced. Miss Walsingham, however, was so perfectly free from all the affectation and vanity of a bel-esprit, that she did not alarm even those who were inferior to her in knowledge; their self-complacency, instead of being depressed by the comparison of their attainments with hers, was insensibly raised, by the perception that notwithstanding these, she could take pleasure in their conversation, could appreciate their good sense or originality of thought, without recurring to the authority of books, or of great names.

In fact, her mind had never been overwhelmed by a wasteful torrent of learning. That the stream of literature had pa.s.sed over, it was apparent only from its fertility. Mrs. Beaumont repented of having drawn her into conversation. Indeed, our heroine had trusted too much to some expressions, which had at times dropped from her son, about _learned ladies_, and certain _conversaziones_. She had concluded that he would never endure literature in a wife; but she now perceived her mistake.

She discerned it too late; and at this moment she was doubly vexed, for she saw Miss Hunter _produce_ herself in most disadvantageous contrast to her rival. In conformity to instructions, which Mrs. Beaumont had secretly given her, not to show too much sense or learning, because gentlemen in general, and in particular Mr. Beaumont, disliked it; this young lady now professed absolute ignorance and incapacity upon all subjects; and meaning to have an air of pretty childish innocence or timidity, really made herself appear quite like a simpleton. At the same time a tinge of ineffectual malice and envy appeared through her ill-feigned humility. She could give no opinion of any book--oh, she would not give any judgment for the whole world! She did not think herself qualified to speak, even if she had read the book, which indeed she had not, for, really, she never read--she was not a _reading lady_.

As Miss Hunter had no portion of Mrs. Beaumont's quick penetration, she did not see the unfavourable impression these words made: certain that she was following exactly her secret instructions, she was confident of being in the right line; so on she went, whilst Mrs. Beaumont sighed in vain; and Miss Walsingham, who now saw and understood her whole play, almost smiled at the comic of the scene.

"O dear, Mrs. Beaumont," continued Miss Hunter, "how can you ever appeal to me about books and those sorts of things, when you know I know nothing about the matter? For mercy's sake, never do so any more, for you know I've no taste for those sorts of things. And besides, I own, even if I could, I should so hate to be thought a blue-stocking--I would not have the least bit of blue in my stockings for the whole world--I'd rather have any other colour, black, white, red, green, yellow, any other colour. So I own I'm not sorry I'm not what they call a genius; for though genius to be sure's a very fascinating sort of thing in gentlemen, yet in women it is not so becoming, I think, especially in ladies: it does very well on the stage, and for artists, and so on; but really now, in company, I think it's an awkward thing, and would make one look so odd! Now, Mr. Beaumont, I must tell you an anecdote--"

"Stop, my dear Miss Hunter, your ear-ring is coming out. Stay! let me clasp it, love!" exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, determined to stop her in the career of nonsense, by giving her sensations, since she could not give her ideas, a new turn.

"Oh, ma'am! ma'am! Oh! my ear! you are killing me, dearest Mrs.

Beaumont! pinching me to death, ma'am!"

"Did I pinch, my dear? It was the hinge of the ear-ring, I suppose."

"I don't know what it was; but here's blood, I declare!"

"My love, I beg you a thousand pardons. How could I be so awkward! But why could not you for one moment hold your little head still?"

Miss Walsingham applied a patch to the wound.

"Such a pretty ear as it is," continued Mrs. Beaumont; "I am sure it was a pity to hurt it."

"You really did hurt it," said Mr. Beaumont, in a tone of compa.s.sion.