“Which I am sure he well deserved,” said Mr. Palmer.
“But certainly Walsingham was right not to let him be run down by a popular cry, especially as he had used him ill,” said Mr. Beaumont.
“Well, well! — I don’t care about the puppy,” cried Mr. Palmer; “only go on.”
“No sooner was the trial over, and the sentence of the court made known, than Admiral Dashleigh, full of joy, admiration, and gratitude, pushed his way towards Walsingham, and stretching out his hand, exclaimed—’Shake hands, Walsingham, and forgive me, or I can’t forgive myself. I suspected you yesterday morning of bearing malice against that coxcomb, who deserved to be laughed at, but not to be shot. By Jove, Walsingham, you’re an honest fellow, I find.’ ‘And have you but just found that out, admiral?’ said Walsingham, with a proud smile. ‘Harkee, my lad,’ said Dashleigh, calling after him, ‘remember, I’m your friend, at all events. — Take it as you will, I’ll make you mine yet, before I’ve done with you.’ Walsingham knew that at this time Admiral Dashleigh’s friends were in power, and that Dashleigh himself had great influence with the Admiralty; and he probably treated the admiral thus haughtily, to show that he had no interested views or hopes. Dashleigh understood this, for he now comprehended Walsingham’s character perfectly. Immediately after the trial, Walsingham was made commander, in consequence of his having saved the Dreadnought, and his having taken l’Ambuscade. With this appointment Dashleigh had nothing to do. But he never ceased exerting himself, employing all the interest of his high connexions, and all the personal influence of his great abilities, to have Walsingham made post, and to get him a ship. He succeeded at last; but he never gave the least hint that it was done by his interest; for, he said, he knew that Walsingham had such nice notions, and was such a proud principled fellow, that he would not enjoy his promotion, if he thought he owed it to any thing upon earth but his own merit. So a handsome letter was written by the secretary of the Admiralty to Captain Walsingham, by their lordships’ desire, informing him, ‘that in consideration of his services and merit, his majesty had been pleased to make him post-captain, and to appoint him to the command of l’Ambuscade (the prize he took), which would be sent out on the first occasion.’ The secretary ‘begged leave to add expressions of his private satisfaction on an appointment so likely to be advantageous to the public,’ &c. In short, it was all done so properly and so plausibly, that even Walsingham never suspected any secret influence, nor did he find out the part Dashleigh had taken in the business till several months afterwards, when a discreet friend mentioned it by accident.”
“I was that discreet friend,” said Mr. Beaumont.
“Well, all this is very good, but there’s no love in this Story,” said Mr. Palmer. “I hope your hero is not too proud to fall in love?”
“Too proud! — We are told, you know, that the greatest hero, in the intervals of war, resigned
‘To tender passions all his mighty mind.’”
“Tender passions! — Captain Walsingham is in love, then, hey?” said Mr. Palmer. “And may I ask — Bless me! I shall be very sorry if it is with any body but — may I ask to whom he is attached?”
“That is a question that I am not quite at liberty perhaps to answer,” said Mr. Walsingham. “During the interval between his return in the Dreadnought and his being appointed to l’Ambuscade, an interval of about eighteen months, which he spent in the country here with me, he had time to become thoroughly acquainted with a very amiable young lady—”
“A very amiable young lady! and in this neighbourhood?” interrupted Mr. Palmer; “it must be the very person I mean, the very person I wish.”
“Do not ask me any more,” said Mr. Walsingham; “for my friend never declared his attachment, and I have no right to declare it for him. He was not, at the time I speak of, in circumstances to marry; therefore he honourably concealed, or rather suppressed, his passion, resolving not to attempt to engage the young lady’s affections till he should have made a fortune sufficient to support her in her own rank in life.”
“Well, now, that’s all done, thank Heaven!” cried Palmer: “he has fortune enough now, or we can help him out, you know. This is excellent, excellent! — Come, is it not time for us to go to the ladies? I’m impatient to tell this to Mrs. Beaumont.”
“Stay, my good Mr. Palmer,” said Mr. Walsingham. “What are you going to do?”
“Let me alone, let me alone — I’ll only tell what I guess — depend upon it, I guess right — and it may do a great deal of good to tell it to Mrs. Beaumont, and it will give her a great deal of pleasure — trust me — trust me.”
“I do trust you — but perhaps you may be mistaken.”
“Not at all, not at all, depend upon it; so let me go to her this minute.”
“But stop, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Beaumont, “stop for another reason; let me beg you to sit down again — I am not clear that Captain Walsingham is not at this instant in love with — perhaps, as it is reported, married to a Spanish lady, whom he has carried off out of a convent at —— , and whom I understand he is bringing home with him.”
“Heyday! a Spanish lady!” said Mr. Palmer, returning slowly to his seat with a fallen countenance. “How’s this? — By St. George, this is unlucky! But how’s this, I say?”
“You did not let us finish our story,” said Mr. Beaumont, “or we should have told you.”
“Let me hear the end of it now,” said Mr. Palmer, sitting down again, and preparing himself with several pinches of snuff. But just at this instant a servant came to say that coffee was ready.
“I will never stir from this spot for coffee or any thing else,” said Mr. Palmer, “till I know the history of the Spanish lady.”
“Then the shortest and best way I have of telling it to you is, to beg you to read this letter, which contains all I know of the matter,” said Mr. Beaumont. “This letter is from young Birch to his parents; we have never heard a syllable directly from Walsingham himself on this subject. Since he reached Lisbon, we have had no letters from him, except that short epistle which brought us an account of his taking the treasure-ship. But we shall see him soon, and know the truth of this story; and hear whether he prefers his Spanish or his English mistress.”
“‘Fore George! I wish this Spanish woman had stayed in her convent,” said Mr. Palmer; “I don’t like runaway ladies. But let us see what this letter says for her.”
The letter is the same that Mr. Beaumont read some time ago, therefore it need not here be inserted. Before Mr. Palmer had finished perusing it, a second message came to say that the ladies waited tea, and that Mrs. Beaumont wished not to be late going home, as there was no moon. Mr. Palmer, nevertheless, finished the letter before he stirred: and then, with a heavy sigh, he rose and said, “I now wish, more than ever, that our captain would come home this night, before I go, and clear up this business. I don’t like this Spanish plot, this double intrigue. Ah, dear me! — I shall be obliged to sail — I shall be in Jamaica before the fifth act.”
“How expectation loads the wings of time!” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, as the gentlemen entered the drawing-room. “Here we have been all day expecting our dear Captain Walsingham, and the time has seemed so long! — The only time I ever found long in this house.”
“I should like to know,” said Mr. Walsingham, after a bow of due acknowledgment to Mrs. Beaumont for her compliment, “I should like to know whether time appears to pass more slowly to those that hope, or those that fear?”
Mrs. Beaumont handed coffee to Mr. Palmer, without attempting to answer this question.
“To those that hope, I should think,” said Mr. Palmer; “for hope long deferred maketh the heart sick; and time, I can answer for it, passes most slowly to those who are sick.”
“‘Slow as the year’s dull circle seems to run,
When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one,’”
said Mr. Walsingham, smiling, as he looked at young Beaumont. “But I think it is the m
ixture of fear with hope that makes time appear to pass slowly.”
“And is hope ever free from that mixture?” said Miss Walsingham. “Does not hope without fear become certainty, and fear without hope despair? Can hope ever be perfectly free from some mixture of fear?”
“Oh, dear me! yes, to be sure,” said Miss Hunter; “for hope’s the most opposite thing that ever was to fear; as different as black and white; for, surely, every body knows that hope is just the contrary to fear; and when one says, I hope, one does not ever mean I fear — surely, you know, Mrs. Beaumont?”
“I am the worst metaphysician in the world,” said Mrs. Beaumont; “I have not head enough to analyze my heart.”
“Nor I neither,” said Miss Hunter: “Heigho!” (very audibly.)
“Hark!” cried Mr. Beaumont, “I think I hear a horse galloping. It is he! it is Walsingham!”
Out ran Beaumont, full speed, to meet his friend; whilst, with, more sober joy, Mr. Walsingham waited on the steps, where all the company assembled, Mr. Palmer foremost, with a face full of benevolent pleasure; Mrs. Beaumont congratulating every body, but nobody listening to her; luckily for her, all were too heartily occupied with their own feelings to see how ill her countenance suited her words. The sound of the galloping of the horse ceased for a minute — then recommenced; but before it could be settled whether it was coming nearer or going farther away, Mr. Beaumont returned with a note in his hand.
“Not Walsingham — only Birch — confound him!” said Mr. Beaumont, out of breath. “Confound him, what a race I took, and how disappointed I was when I saw Birch’s face; and yet it is no fault of his, poor lad!”
“But why did not he come up to the house? Why did not you let us see him?” said Mr. Walsingham.
“I could not keep him, he was in such a hurry to go home to his father and mother, he would only stop to give this note.”
“From Walsingham? Read, quick.”
“Plymouth, 5 o’clock, A.M. just landed.
“Dear friends, I cannot have the pleasure of seeing you, as I had hoped to do, this day — I am obliged to go to London instantly on business that must not be delayed — Cannot tell when I can be with you — hope in a few days — Well and happy, and ever yours, H. WALSINGHAM.”
All stood silent with looks of disappointment, except Mrs. Beaumont, who reiterated, “What a pity! What a sad pity! What a disappointment! What a terrible disappointment!”
“Business!” said Mr. Beaumont: “curse his business! he should think of his friends first.”
“Most likely his business is for his friends,” said Miss Walsingham.
“That’s right, my dear little defender of the absent,” said Mr. Walsingham.
“Business!” repeated Mr. Palmer. “Hum! I like business better than pleasure — I will be patient, if it is really business that keeps him away from us.”
“Depend upon it,” said Miss Walsingham, “nothing but business can keep him away from us; his pleasure is always at home.”
“I am thinking,” said Mr. Palmer, drawing Mr. Walsingham aside, “I am thinking whether he has really brought this Spanish lady home with him, and what will become of her — of — him, I mean. I wish I was not going to Jamaica!”
“Then, my dear sir, where is the necessity of your going?”
“My health — my health — the physicians say I cannot live in England.”
Mr. Walsingham, who had but little faith in physicians, laughed, and exclaimed, “But, my dear sir, when you see so many men alive in England at this instant, why should you believe in the impossibility of your living even in this pestiferous country?”
Mr. Palmer half smiled, felt for his snuff-box, and then replied, “I am sure I should like to live in England, if my health would let me; but,” continued he, his face growing longer, and taking the hypochondriac cast as he pronounced the word, “but, Mr. Walsingham, you don’t consider that my health is really — really—”
“Really very good, I see,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham, “and I am heartily glad to see it.”
“Sir! sir! you do not see it, I assure you. I have a great opinion of your judgment, but as you are not a physician—”
“And because I have not taken out my diploma, you think I can neither see nor understand,” interrupted Mr. Walsingham. “But, nevertheless, give me leave to feel your pulse.”
“Do you really understand a pulse?” said Mr. Palmer, baring his wrist, and sighing.
“As good a pulse as ever man had,” pronounced Mr. Walsingham.
“You don’t say so? why the physicians tell me—”
“Never mind what they tell you — if they told you the truth, they’d tell you they want fees.”
Mrs. Beaumont, quite startled by the tremendously loud voice in which Mr. Walsingham pronounced the word truth, rose, and rang the bell for her carriage.
“Mr. Palmer,” said she, “I am afraid we must run away, for I dread the night air for invalids.”
“My good madam, I am at your orders,” answered Mr. Palmer, buttoning himself up to the chin.
“Mrs. Beaumont, surely you don’t think this gentleman an invalid?” said Mr. Walsingham.
“I only wish he would not think himself such,” replied Mrs. Beaumont.
“Ah! my dear friends,” said Mr. Palmer, “I really am, I certainly am a sad — sad—”
“Hypochondriac,” said Mr. Walsingham. “Pardon me — you are indeed, and every body is afraid to tell you so but myself.”
Mrs. Beaumont anxiously looked out of the window to see if her carriage was come to the door.
“Hypochondriac! not in the least, my dear sir,” said Mr. Palmer. “If you were to hear what Dr. —— and Dr. —— say of my case, and your own Dr. Wheeler here, who has a great reputation too — shall I tell you what he says?”
In a low voice, Mr. Palmer, holding Mr. Walsingham by the button, proceeded to recapitulate some of Dr. Wheeler’s prognostics; and at every pause, Mr. Walsingham turned impatiently, so as almost to twist off the detaining button, repeating, in the words of the king of Prussia to his physician, “C’est un âne! C’est un âne! C’est un âne!”—”Pshaw! I don’t understand French,” cried Mr. Palmer, angrily. His warmth obliged him to think of unbuttoning his coat, which operation (after stretching his neckcloth to remove an uneasy feeling in his throat) he was commencing, when Mrs. Beaumont graciously stopped his hand.
“The carriage is at the door, my dear sir: — instead of unbuttoning your coat, had not you better put this cambric handkerchief round your throat before we go into the cold air?”
Mr. Palmer put it on, as if in defiance of Mr. Walsingham, and followed Mrs. Beaumont, who led him off in triumph. Before he reached the carriage-door, however, his anger had spent its harmless force; and stopping to shake hands with him, Mr. Palmer said, “My good Mr. Walsingham, I am obliged to you. I am sure you wish me well, and I thank you for speaking so freely; I love honest friends — but as to my being a hypochondriac, believe me, you are mistaken!”
“And as to Dr. Wheeler,” said Mrs. Beaumont, as she drew up the glass of the carriage, and as they drove from the door, “Dr. Wheeler certainly does not deserve to be called un âne, for he is a man of whose medical judgment I have the highest opinion. Though I am sure I am very candid to acknowledge it in the present case, when his opinion is so much against my wishes, and all our wishes, and must, I fear, deprive us so soon of the company of our dear Mr. Palmer.”
“Why, yes, I must go, I must go to Jamaica,” said Mr. Palmer in a more determined tone than he had yet spoken on the subject.
Mrs. Beaumont silently rejoiced; and as her son imprudently went on arguing in favour of his own wishes, she leaned back in the carriage, and gave herself up to a pleasing reverie, in which she anticipated the successful completion of all her schemes. Relieved from the apprehension that Captain Walsingham’s arrival might disconcert her projects, she was now still further re-assured by Mr. Palmer’s resolution to sail immediately. One day
more, and she was safe. Let Mr. Palmer but sail without seeing Captain Walsingham, and this was all Mrs. Beaumont asked of fortune; the rest her own genius would obtain. She was so absorbed in thought, that she did not know she was come home, till the carriage stopped at her door. Sometimes, indeed, her reverie had been interrupted by Mr. Palmer’s praises of the Walsinghams, and by a conversation which she heard going on about Captain Walsingham’s life and adventures: but Captain Walsingham was safe in London; and whilst he was at that distance, she could bear to hear his eulogium. Having lamented that she had been deprived of her dear Amelia all this day, and having arranged her plan of operations for the morrow, Mrs. Beaumont retired to rest. And even in dreams her genius invented fresh expedients, wrote notes of apology, or made speeches of circumvention.
CHAPTER XI.
“And now, as oft in some distempered state, On one nice trick depends the general fate.” — POPE.
That old politician, the cardinal of Lorraine, used to say, that “a lie believed but for one hour doth many times in a nation produce effects of seven years’ continuance.” At this rate what wonderful effects might our heroine have produced, had she practised in public life, instead of confining her genius to family politics! The game seemed now in her own hands. The day, the important day, on which all her accounts with her son were to be settled; the day when Mr. Palmer’s will was to be signed, the last day he was to stay in England, arrived. Mr. Beaumont’s birthday, his coming of age, was of course hailed with every possible demonstration of joy. The village bells rang, the tenants were invited to a dinner and a dance, and an ox was to be roasted whole; and the preparations for rejoicing were heard all over the house. Mr. Palmer’s benevolent heart was ever ready to take a share in the pleasures of his fellow-creatures, especially in the festivities of the lower classes. He appeared this morning in high good humour. Mrs. Beaumont, with a smile on her lips, yet with a brow of care, was considering how she could make pleasure subservient to interest, and how she could get business done in the midst of the amusements of the day. Most auspiciously did her day of business begin by Mr. Palmer’s declaring to her that his will was actually made; that with the exception of certain legacies, he had left his whole fortune to her during her life, with remainder to her son and daughter. “By this arrangement,” continued he, “I trust I shall ultimately serve my good friends the Walsinghams, as I wish: for though I have not seen as much of that family as I should have been glad to have done, yet the little I have seen convinces me that they are worthy people.”
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