“Not at present, then, I entreat you!”
“This very instant,” cried Lady Hunter, affecting all the imperious vivacity of a young bride, under favour of which she determined to satisfy her malicious curiosity.
“Pray, Lady Hunter, do not read it,” repeated Captain Walsingham, laying his hand over the letter. “It is for your own sake,” added he, in a low and earnest voice, “it is for your own sake, not mine, that I beg of you to forbear.”
Lady Hunter, imagining this to be only a subterfuge, drew the letter from beneath Captain Walsingham’s hand, exclaiming, “For my sake! Oh, Captain, that is a charming ruse de guerre, but do not hope that it shall succeed!”
“Oh! mother, believe him, believe him,” cried Amelia: “I am sure he tells you the truth, and he speaks for your sake, not for his own.”
Amelia interceded in vain.
Mr. Palmer patted Amelia’s shoulder fondly, saying, “You are a dear good creature.”
“A dear credulous creature!” exclaimed Lady Hunter. She had now undisturbed possession of the letter.
Captain Walsingham stood by with a face of great concern; in which Amelia and Mr. Beaumont, without knowing the cause, seemed to sympathize.
The contest had early attracted the attention of all within hearing or view of her ladyship, and by this time had been pointed out and accounted for in whispers, even to the most remote parts of the room; so that the eyes of almost every individual in the assembly were now fixed upon Lady Hunter. She had scarcely glanced her eye upon the letter, when she turned pale as death, and exclaimed, “He knew it! he knew it!” Then, recollecting herself, she made a struggle to conceal her dismay—the forced smile quivered on her lip,—she fell back in a swoon, and was carried out of the room by her son and daughter. Sir John Hunter was at another table, eating eel-pie, and was the last person present who was made to understand what had happened.