“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 pass 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 assert 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 assure you, he’s a very fashionable and a very agreeable man; a great favourite with our sex, 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.