“But you will require no more on this subject—I must be left master of myself.”
“Indubitably—certainly—master of yourself—most certainly—of course.”
Mr. Beaumont was going to add something beginning with, “It is better, at once, to tell you, that I can never—” But Mrs. Beaumont stopped him with, “Hush! my dear, hush! not a word more, for here is Amelia, and I cannot talk on this subject before her, you know.——My beloved Amelia, how languid you look! I fear that, to please me, you have taken too long a walk; and Mr. Palmer won’t see you in your best looks, after all.—What note is that you have in your hand?”
“A note from Miss Walsingham, mamma.”
“Oh! the chickenpox! take care! letters, notes, every thing may convey the infection,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, snatching the paper. “How could dearest Miss Walsingham be so giddy as to answer my note, after what I said in my postscript!—How did this note come?”
“By the little postboy, mamma; I met him at the porter’s lodge.”
“But what is all this strange thing?” said Mrs. Beaumont, after having read the note twice over.—It contained a certificate from the parish minister and churchwardens, apothecary, and surgeon, bearing witness, one and all, that there was no individual, man, woman, or child, in the parish, or within three miles of Walsingham House, who was even under any suspicion of having the chickenpox.
“My father desires me to send Mrs. Beaumont the enclosed clean bill of health—by which she will find that we need be no longer subject to quarantine; and, unless some other reasons prevent our having the pleasure of seeing her, we may hope soon that she will favour us with her long promised visit.
“Yours, sincerely,
“MARIANNE WALSINGHAM.”