The Manoeuvring Mother (vol. 2 of 3)

Sir Foster Kerrison's entrance into the great drawing-room at Wetheral was an epoch in its annals. It was the precursor of stirring matter. Lady Wetheral received him with great amenity of manner; and any other gentleman might have perceived a look of anxious care in her eyes. Sir Foster, however, saw nothing; he did not even observe that her ladyship was alone. Habit directed him to a seat in the direction of the lounging-chair, which stood in the boudoir, and when his hat was placed upon a table, there was nothing to interfere with his dolce far niente. Sir Foster sat down, tapping his boot and winking his eye, in happy ignorance of coming events.

Lady Wetheral allowed some little time to elapse in silence, ere she commenced proceedings; but, when Sir Foster had taken root, and looked steadily deposited for three hours at least, the case was gently opened. Lady Wetheral drew near, and seated herself opposite her neighbour.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, I beg your attention for a few moments."

Sir Foster made no reply, but a rather quickened tapping of the boot assured her she was heard. Miss Kerrison had innocently enough supplied the key to her father's meaning, and movements.

"Perhaps, my dear Sir Foster, you are somewhat surprised at the absence of Lucy and Clara."

Sir Foster looked round the room, and smiled.

"Clara is not allowed to return again to your society, my dear Sir Foster, for very essential and painful reasons." Lady Wetheral paused, but she might have continued ad libitum for hours: Sir Foster neither perceived the absence of his daughter and Clara, nor understood the drift of her remarks. Lady Wetheral's quickness detected at once the obtuseness of her companion; she perceived the uselessness of hints and sighs, and broken sentences, in the present instance. Tom Pynsent yielded at once to their influence, but Sir Foster required a coup de main to rouse his feelings and attention. Another line of conduct was therefore chosen.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, you have behaved very ill to my daughter!"

"God bless me!" cried Sir Foster, almost starting. "Eh! what?"

"If your intentions are not honourable, Sir Foster Kerrison, I, as a mother, demand a change of conduct on your part."

"Lucy ill, or any thing?" demanded Sir Foster, in surprise.

"_Miss Kerrison_ is well," replied Lady Wetheral, with emphasis.

"Oh, umph!"

Sir Foster sank again comfortably into the arm-chair.

Provoking man! Was there no way of chaining such a creature? Her ladyship's patience was inexhaustible. Perhaps a still more decided manner might effect the purpose. Lady Wetheral took a high tone.

"Sir Foster Kerrison, the neighbourhood have reported you are addressing my daughter. I wish to know if you are aware of this report: Miss Wetheral shall not be trifled with, Sir Foster!"

The tapping increased in velocity, and Sir Foster's eye winked with prodigious rapidity. Her ladyship became gradually more resolute and parental.

"If my child is to be made wretched, Sir Foster Kerrison, a mother's offended heart will urge its claims to be heard, and her lips will express its horror at such baseness. She will tell you how detestably wicked it is to come, day after day, and sit hours, with an innocent, trusting girl, who fondly believes there is truth and honour in your soul. No parent can mistake the aim of your visits, Sir Foster, but I will know if it is meant in honour. I will hear no base apologies, no wicked evasions--is my daughter to be Lady Kerrison, or is she to pine away in solitary, unrequited attachment? Is Miss Wetheral to become pointed at as a refused and melancholy picture of disappointed love; or is my lovely Clara to be your happy, affectionate wife, Sir Foster Kerrison?" The lady's voice sounded agitated and heart-broken at the conclusion of her speech.

Sir Foster looked bewildered. He heard the epithets "base" and "wicked," without comprehending their purport, or having a connecting idea of the sentences which fell from Lady Wetheral's lips with such voluble earnestness. He only heard distinctly the concluding words, "Is my lovely Clara to be your happy, affectionate wife, Sir Foster?" and he replied with quiet nonchalance,

"If you please--oh yes--eh, what?"

Lady Wetheral smiled very complacently as she rose from her seat.

"You have made me very happy, by proposing for my Clara, dear Sir Foster, and we will now return into the boudoir."

Lady Wetheral talked all the way from the drawing-room into her boudoir, while Sir Foster followed, humming and staring, perfectly aware something had happened, yet not quite awake to its nature.

"I am delighted our little society is not to be broken up, my dear Sir Foster: now, you know, every thing will continue in its own charming routine--you will be in your arm-chair now every day, as a thing of course. Sit down, dear Sir Foster; I will open this window; the spring flowers are early and delicious this season. I perceive Lucy and Clara walking in the garden. Ah, I see you have taken possession of your old seat, dear Sir Foster."

Miss Kerrison and Clara were quickly at the door of the boudoir. Clara had seen the signal; the window was at last thrown open.

"Lucy, Lucy, your father is come; let us return to the house," she cried, hastily retracing her steps. Lucy followed instinctively.

"Lucy Kerrison," said Lady Wetheral, taking her hand the moment she appeared, "I have very extraordinary news for you! how are you inclined to receive a mother-in-law, my dear love!"

"Are you going to marry papa?" asked Lucy Kerrison, in extremity of surprise.

"No, my love; Sir John is in excellent health in his study," replied her ladyship, smiling.

"Oh yes, how foolish! I forgot; but I fancied you in earnest, and I could only think of yourself, Lady Wetheral. Papa, are you going to be married? Oh, don't marry! pray, don't marry, papa, and I will return to Ripley with you: but it's only a joke, is it papa?" and poor Lucy Kerrison became very pale.

"My dear love, you really tremble; but I assure you there is no need of any alarm. You will not fear Clara as a new relation: you will lead a very easy life with Clara, my dear Lucy! Your papa has proposed for Clara, my dear young friend. Are you sorry?"

Lucy Kerrison seated herself in perfect silence and astonishment. Lady Wetheral resumed.

"Clara, my love, Sir Foster has decided upon taking away my companion: he has asked for you to ornament and enliven Ripley, my love. How can I refuse Sir Foster Kerrison; and yet how can I part with my only child, my only companion, since the marriage of Mrs. Tom Pynsent and Lady Ennismore!"

Miss Kerrison fixed her gaze upon Clara and her father alternately, but she did not speak: her ideas were too confused to admit of speech, and she watched in stupid amazement the scene that was passing before her. Lady Wetheral approached Sir Foster, leading Clara.

"Rise, man of happy fortunes, and receive the boon I tender to you according to your wishes. Make my child happy, and I must reluctantly consider myself fortunate in giving her to a good, indulgent man, such as Sir Foster Kerrison."

Sir Foster was noted for taciturnity, and inveterate absence of mind, in society; but he was not an absolute fool, and he was a great admirer of beauty. He had a strong suspicion in his mind that a young lady was on the point of being forced upon him; but he hated altercation, and the lady was young and particularly handsome; besides, Lady Wetheral was insisting upon it, he had made proposals, and it was useless to contend. Sir Foster therefore rose and bowed very gallantly--considering it was Sir Foster; and that bow recognised and authorised the whole affair. Lady Wetheral's care was ended upon Clara's matrimonial prospects.

Miss Kerrison at length found words to express her deep surprise, and indeed pleasure, considering her father really meant to marry; but she confessed the thing was a mystery to her; she had seen no attention on her father's part to Clara--never! As to his sitting three hours every day at Wetheral, that was nothing--he did so at many places. She never saw any liking on Clara's part either--altogether, it was the oddest piece of courtship she had ever seen or read of.

Sir Foster having bowed and reseated himself, heard all his daughter's remarks in silence. He smiled and tapped his boot fast, which always denoted concurrence, or was a symptom of pleasure as far as it went; therefore, Miss Kerrison continued.

"I am sure, papa, you only visit here as you did at Hatton and Lidham, and in Shrewsbury; you never made love to Miss Wycherly or Miss Spottiswoode; did you? And you never spoke to, or looked at Clara that I could see? I cannot make it all out! I am sure, Clara, you would have mentioned it to me if you had liked papa, or if you thought papa liked you. I never shall understand it. Are you going to marry soon, papa?"

"All in good time, my dear Lucy," replied Lady Wetheral, pleased with the admirable issue of her scheme; "there are many little things to be done before Clara can be given up to you. You, my dear Lucy, must be my daughter when Clara goes to Ripley; you must stay with me then, at poor lonely Wetheral."