Mrs. Beaumont was, in her turn, in unfeigned astonishment; for Mr. Palmer took the matter more seriously, and seemed more hurt by this discovery of a trifling deviation from truth, than she had foreseen, or than she could have conceived to be possible, in a case where neither his interest nor any one of his passions was concerned. It was in vain that she palliated and explained, and talked of delicacy, and generosity, and pride, and maternal feelings, and the feelings of a friend, and all manner of fine and double-refined sentiments; still Mr. Palmer’s sturdy plain sense could not be made to comprehend that a falsehood is not a falsehood, or that deceiving a friend is using him well. Her son suffered for her, as his countenance and his painful and abashed silence plainly showed.
“And does not even my son say any thing for me? Is this friendly?” said she, unable to enter into his feelings, and thinking that the part of a friend was to make apologies, right or wrong.—Mr. Palmer shook hands with Mr. Beaumont, and, without uttering a syllable, they understood one another perfectly. Mr. Beaumont left the room; and Mrs. Beaumont burst into tears. Mr. Palmer, with great good-nature, tried to assuage that shame and compunction which he imagined that she felt. He observed, that, to be sure, she must feel mortified and vexed with herself, but that he was persuaded nothing but some mistaken notion of delicacy could have led her to do what her principles must condemn. Immediately she said all that she saw would please Mr. Palmer; and following the lead of his mind, she at last confirmed him in the opinion, that this was an accidental not an habitual deviation from truth. His confidence in her was broken, but not utterly destroyed.
“As to the debt,” resumed Mr. Palmer, “do not let that give you a moment’s concern; I will put that out of the question in a few minutes. My share in the cargo of the Anne, which I see is just safely arrived in the Downs, will more than pay this debt. Your son shall enter upon his estate unencumbered. No, no—don’t thank me; I won’t cheat you of your thanks; it is your son must thank me for this. I do it on his account. I like the young man. There is an ingenuousness, an honourable frankness about him, that I love. Instead of his bond for the money, I shall ask his promise never to have any thing more to do with race-horses or Newmarket; and his promise I shall think as good as if it were his bond. Now I am not throwing money away; I’m not doing an idle ostentatious thing, but one that may, and I hope will, be essentially useful. For, look you here, my good—look here, Mrs. Beaumont: a youth who finds himself encumbered with debt on coming to his estate is apt to think of freeing himself by marrying a fortune instead of a woman; now instead of freeing a man, this fetters him for life: and what sort of a friend must that be, who, if he could prevent it, would let this be done for a few thousand pounds? So I’ll go before I take another pinch of snuff, and draw him an order upon the cargo of the Anne, lest I should forget it in the hurry of packing and taking leave, and all those uncomfortable things.”
He left Madam Beaumont to her feelings, or her reflections; and, in a few minutes, with an order for the money in his hand, went over the house in search of his young friend. Mr. Beaumont came out of his sister’s room on hearing himself called.
“Here,” said Mr. Palmer, “is a little business for you to do. Read this order over; see that it is right, and endorse it—mind—and never let me hear one word more about it—only by way of acknowledgment—ask your mother what you are to give me. But don’t read it till you are out of my sight—Is Amelia up? Can I see her?”
“Yes; up and in her dressing-room. Do, dear sir, go in and see her, for my mother says she is too feverish to leave her room to-day; but I am sure that it will make her ten times worse to be prevented from seeing you the last day you are with us.”
“Does the little gipsy then care so much for me?—that’s fair; for I am her friend, and will prove it to her, by giving up my own fancies to hers: so trust me with her, tête-à-tête,—young gentleman; go off, if you please, and do your own business.”
Mr. Palmer knocked at Amelia’s door, and fancying he heard an answer of admittance, went in.
“Oh, Mr. Palmer, my good Mr. Palmer, is it you?”
“Yes; but you seem not above half to know whether you are glad or sorry to see your good Mr. Palmer; for while you hold out your hand, you turn away your face from me.—Dear, dear! what a burning hand, and how the pulse goes and flutters! What does Dr. Wheeler say to this? I am a bit of a physician myself—let me look at you. What’s this? eyes as red as ferret’s—begging your eyes’ pardon, young lady—What’s this about? Come,” said he, drawing a chair and sitting down close beside her, “no mysteries—no mysteries—I hate mysteries—besides, we have not time for them. Consider, I go to-morrow, and have all my shirts to pack up: ay, smile, lady, as your father used to do; and open your whole heart to me, as he always did. Consider me as an old friend.”