“Good Heavens! was not all I did and said for your interest?”
“Nothing can be for my interest that is not for my honour, and for yours, mother. But let us never go over the business again. Now to the order of the day.”
“My dear, dear son,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “don’t speak so roughly, so cruelly to me.”
Suddenly softened, by seeing the tears standing in his mother’s eyes, he besought her pardon for the bluntness of his manner, and expressed his entire belief in her affection and zeal for his interests; but, on the main point, that he would not deceive Mr. Palmer, or directly or indirectly assert a falsehood, Mr. Beaumont was immoveable. In the midst of her entreaties a message came from Mr. Palmer, to say that he was waiting for the accounts, which Mrs. Beaumont wished to settle. “Well,” said she, much perplexed, “well, come down to him—come, for it is impossible for me to find any excuse after sending for him from London; he would think there was something worse than there really is. Stay—I’ll go down first, and sound him; and if it won’t do without the accounts, do you come when I ring the bell; then all I have for it is to run my chance. Perhaps he may never recollect what passed about your debts, for the dear good old soul has not the best memory in the world; and if he should obstinately remember, why, after all, it’s only a bit of false delicacy, and a white lie for a friend and a son, and we can colour it.”
Down went Mrs. Beaumont to sound Mr. Palmer; but though much might be expected from her address, yet she found it unequal to the task of convincing this gentleman’s plain good sense that it would fatigue him to see those accounts, which he came so many miles on purpose to settle. Perceiving him begin to waken to the suspicion that she had some interest in suppressing the accounts, and hearing him, in an altered tone, ask, “Madam, is there any mystery in these accounts, that I must not see them?” she instantly rang the bell, and answered, “Oh, none; none in the world; only we thought—that is, I feared it might fatigue you too much, my dear friend, just the day before your journey, and I was unwilling to lose so many hours of your good company; but since you are so very kind—here’s my son and the papers.”
CHAPTER XII.
“A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.”
To the settlement of accounts they sat down in due form; and it so happened, that though this dear good old soul had not the best memory in the world, yet he had an obstinate recollection of every word Mrs. Beaumont had said about her son’s having no debts or embarrassments. And great and unmanageable was his astonishment, when the truth came to light. “It is not,” said he, turning to Mr. Beaumont, “that I am astonished at your having debts; I am sorry for that, to be sure; but young men are often a little extravagant or so, and I dare say—particularly as you are so candid and make no excuses about it—I dare say you will be more prudent in future, and give up the race-horses as you promise. But—why did not Madam Beaumont tell me the truth? Why make a mystery, when I wanted nothing but to serve my friends? It was not using me well—it was not using yourself well. Madam, madam, I am vexed to the heart, and would not for a thousand pounds—ay, fool as I am, not for ten thousand pounds, this had happened to me from my good friend the colonel’s widow—a man that would as soon have cut his hand off. Oh, madam! Madam Beaumont! you have struck me a hard blow at my time of life. Any thing but this I could have borne; but to have one’s confidence and old friendships shaken at my time of life!”