“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 mixture 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!”