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Tales and Novels, Vol. V by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales and Novels, Vol. V




"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.




CHAPTER V.

"Chi mi fa piu carezze che non sole;
O m'ha ingannato, o ingannar me vuole."


"By St. George, there's nothing like Old England for comfort!" cried Mr.
Palmer, settling himself in his arm-chair in the evening; "nothing after
all in any part of the known world, like Old England for comfort. Why,
madam, there's not another people in the universe that have in any of
their languages a name even for comfort. The French have been forced to
borrow it; but now they have got it, they don't know how to use it, nor
even how to pronounce it, poor devils! Well, there's nothing like Old
England for comfort."

John Crace digests High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
Review: The Thin Blue Line: How Humanitarianism Went to War by Conor FoleyAid worker Foley conducts a fascinating and important analysis of recent wars and disasters around the world, says Steven Poole

Review: Under Two Dictators: Prisoner of Stalin and Hitler by Margarete Buber-Neumann

He might be almost 90 years old in real terms, but Christopher Robin and his bear of very little brain are set to make a literary comeback after the estate of AA Milne agreed to authorise the first-ever official sequel to the much-loved children's books.

Return to the Hundred Acre Wood by author David Benedictus picks up from the poignant ending of Milne's last Pooh book, The House at Pooh Corner, in which Christopher Robin is growing up and heading away to school. "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred," he tells the bear, and they leave together.

The estates of Milne and EH Shepard, who provided the simple but enduring illustrations for the books, said they had been searching for a sequel that would do justice to the original stories for "a good many years".

Although Disney has franchised the characters in a number of films, there has not previously been an authorised literary sequel to Milne's books, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner, first published in 1926 and 1928. Milne wrote the books for his son Christopher Robin, naming Pooh after his teddy bear.

The sequel, to be published by Egmont Publishing in Britain and Penguin imprint Dutton Children's Books in the US, is due out on 5 October, illustrated by Mark Burgess. Benedictus, who is familiar with the world of Winnie the Pooh after adapting and producing audio versions of the books starring Judi Dench, Stephen Fry and Jane Horrocks, did not reveal any more details, but promised that the book would both "complement and maintain Milne's idea that whatever happens, a little boy and his bear will always be playing".

Michael Brown, chairman of Pooh Properties, which manages the affairs of the Milne and Shepard estates, said the sequel would capture "the spirit and quality" of the original books.

Benedictus said all Milne's well-loved characters, from Tigger to Eeyore, would be making an appearance in his sequel, which features 10 stories and around 150 illustrations. The stories retain their original 1920s setting.

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Review: The Error World: An Affair with Stamps by Simon Garfield

One might say that Margarete Buber-Neumann had a charmed life, had it not been so horrible. She was fortunate - if that is the word - to be sent to a Soviet labour camp in 1939, during a momentary lull in the mass shooting of prisoners. Handed over to the Nazis in 1940, she was similarly lucky to be released from an SS concentration camp in 1945, just days before the remaining prisoners were forced on evacuation marches ending in death. It is a measure of the dismal times she lived through that such events marked her as fortunate, and it is a testament to her skill as a writer that this thoughtful, humane memoir (published in English in 1949) became an international bestseller. From the very first page we are with her, scurrying through Moscow surrounded by images of Stalin. We accompany her throughout the gruelling years ahead, encountering a host of characters, good and bad, and share in her dogged attempt to make sense of the madness of totalitarianism. This revised text is the definitive edition.

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