"Wittingham's an old fool!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "and like all other old fools, he thinks himself the wisest man in the world. I wonder what the lord-lieutenant could be dreaming of when he put him in the commission of the peace--a man no more fit for it than my horsewhip. I'll pay him for it all--I'll pay him--ask him to dinner--make him beastly drunk, and lodge him for the night in a horse-trough."
"I hope not this evening, Sir John," said Beauchamp, with a smile.
"Oh dear no," replied the baronet, with a look of rueful fear, "all very prim to-night--all as grave as judges--quite proper and discreet while my sister Harriet is with us--an archdeacon's widow, you know--a dean's, after all--though he was only dean for a couple of months--a very good man indeed, but exceedingly proper, terribly proper: the very sound of a cork frightened him out of his wits. I do believe he fancied that port and Madeira are sent over in decanters, and claret in jugs with handles. However, you'll come, that's settled: half-past five, old-fashioned hours, gives plenty of time after dinner. But now that's no use," added the baronet, with a sigh, "we might as well dine at seven now--no use of a long evening. However, the girls will give us a song, or music of some kind, and perhaps we can make up a rubber at long whist, which will make us sleep as sound as dormice. No sin in that--no, Ned."
"None in the world, Sir John," answered Ned Hayward, "but a great deal of dulness. I never could make out in my life how men, with their wits about them, could spend hours throwing bits of painted pasteboard in a particular order for shillings and sixpences."
"Just as reasonable as standing up for hours to be showed for shillings and sixpences," answered Sir John Slingsby, "and both you and I have played at that, you dog. Every thing is folly if you take it in the abstract--love, war, wine, ambition; and depend upon it, Ned, the lightest follies are the best--isn't it so, Mr. Beauchamp?"
"There is indeed some truth in what you say, Sir John," replied Beauchamp, with a thoughtful smile; "and I believe amusing follies are better than serious ones--at least I begin to think so now."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered Sir John Slingsby; "man was made for fun and not for sadness. It's a very nice world if people would let it be so. Oh, we'll show you some sport, Mr. Beauchamp, before we have done with you; but to-day you know we'll all be very proper--very good boys indeed--and then when the cat's away the mice will play. Ha! ha! ha! At half-past five, you know, and in the meantime, Ned and I will ride off and abuse old Wittingham. I'll give him a pretty lecture."
Good Sir John was disappointed however; his horses, his groom, and his bulky person had all been seen from the windows of Mr. Wittingham's house as he rode into the town with Ned Hayward, and as a matter of course, Mr. Wittingham was over the hills and far away before the visit to Mr. Beauchamp was concluded.
When Sir John and Ned Hayward left him, Beauchamp remained for some minutes with a smile upon his countenance--a meditative--nay, a melancholy smile.
"So fleet our resolutions," he said to himself, "so fade away our schemes and purposes. Who can say in this life what he will do and what he will not do the next day--nay, the next minute? Which is the happiest after all, the man who struggles with fate and circumstance, and strives to perform the impracticable task of ruling them, or he who, like a light thing upon the waters, suffers himself to be carried easily down the current, whirling round with every eddy, resting quietly in the still pool, or dashing gaily down the rapids? Heaven knows, but at all events, fate has shown herself so resolute to take my affairs into her own hands, that I will not try to resist her. I will indulge every whim, and leave fortune to settle the result. I may as well purchase that property: it is as good an investment as any other, I dare say, and if not, it does not much signify. I will write to my agent to transmit the money to-day."