"_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 amba.s.sador, 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 grat.i.tude towards those who had been the princ.i.p.al 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sert 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 a.s.sure you, he's a very fashionable and a very agreeable man; a great favourite with our s.e.x, 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 grat.i.tude 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 princ.i.p.al 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 dest.i.tute 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 a.s.sertion, nor did he a.s.sent 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 a.s.sistance 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?"