“No; and I believe she does not wish me to know it: therefore don’t tell it me,” said Mr. Palmer.
“It is a secret that must be in the public papers in a few days,” said Captain Walsingham. “This lady that I brought over from Lisbon—”
“Well, what can she have to say to Mrs. Beaumont?”
“Nothing to Mrs. Beaumont, but a great deal to Lady Hunter. You may remember that I mentioned to you that some of her relations had contrived to have her kept in that convent abroad, and had spread a report of her death, that the heir-at-law might defraud her of her property, and get and keep possession of a large estate, which fell to him in case of her death. Of further particulars, or even of the name of this estate, I knew nothing till this morning, when that letter from the aunt—here it is—tells me, that the estate to which her niece was entitled is the great Wigram estate, and that old Wigram was the rascally heir-at-law. The lawyer I recommended to the lady was both an honest and a clever fellow; and he represented so forcibly to old Wigram the consequences of his having his fraud brought to light in a court of equity, that he made him soon agree to a private reference. The affair has been compromised, and settled thus:—The possession of the estate is given up, just as it stands, to the rightful owner; and she forbears to call the old sinner to an account for past arrears. She will let him make it out to the world and to his own conscience, if he can, that he bona-fide believed her to be dead.”
“So,” said Mr. Palmer, “so end Madam Beaumont’s hopes of being at the head of the Wigram estate, and so end her hopes of being a countess!—And actually married to this ruined spendthrift!—Now we see the reason he pressed on the match so, and urged her to marry him before the affair should become public. She is duped, and for life!—poor Madam Beaumont!”
At this moment Lady Hunter came out of her room, after having changed her dress, and repaired her smiles.
“Ready for my journey now,” said she, passing by Mr. Palmer quickly. “I must show myself to the world of friends below, and bid them adieu. One word, Captain Walsingham: there’s no occasion, you know,” whispered she, “to say any thing below of that letter; I really don’t believe it.”
Too proud to let her mortification be known, Lady Hunter constrained her feelings with all her might. She appeared once more with a pleased countenance in the festive assembly. She received their compliments and congratulations, and invited them, with all the earnestness of friendship, to favour Sir John and her, as soon as possible, with their company at Hunter Hall. The company were now fast departing; carriages came to the door in rapid succession. Lady Hunter went through with admirable grace and variety the sentimental ceremony of taking leave; and when her splendid barouche was at the door, and when she was to bid adieu to her own family, still she acted her part inimitably. In all the becoming mixed smiles and tears of a bride, she was seen embracing by turns her beloved daughter and son, and daughter-in-law and son-in-law, over and over again, in the hall, on the steps; to the last moment contriving to be torn delightfully from the bosom of her family by her impatient bridegroom. Seated beside him in his barouche, she kissed her hand to Mr. Palmer,—smiled: all her family, who stood on the steps, bowed; and Sir John drove away with his prize.
“He’s a swindler!” cried Mr. Palmer, “and she is—”
“Amelia’s mother,” interrupted Captain Walsingham.