“I do consider you as a sincere, excellent friend,” said Amelia; “but—” Amelia knew that she could not explain herself without disobeying, and perhaps betraying, her mother.
“No buts,” said Mr. Palmer, taking hold of her hand. “Come, my little Amelia, before you have put that ring on and off your pretty finger fifty times more, tell me whom you would wish to put a ring on this finger for life?”
“Ah! that is the thing I cannot tell you!” said Amelia. “Were I alone concerned, I would tell you every thing; but—ask me no more, I cannot tell you the whole truth.”
“Then there’s something wrong somewhere or other. Whenever people tell me they cannot speak the truth, I always say, then there’s something wrong. Give me leave, Amelia, to ask—”
“Don’t question me,” said Amelia: “talk to my mother. I don’t know how I ought to answer you.”
“Not know how! ‘Fore George! this is strange! A strange house, where one can’t get at the simplest truth without a world of difficulty—mother and daughter all alike; not one of ‘em but the son can, for the soul of ‘em, give a plain answer to a plain question. Not know how! as if it was a science to tell the truth. Not know how! as if a person could not talk to me, honest old Richard Palmer, without knowing how! as if it was how to baffle a lawyer on a cross-examination—Not know how to answer one’s own friend! Ah! this is not the way your father and I used to go on, Miss Beaumont. Nay, nay, don’t cry now, or that will finish oversetting the little temper I have left, for I can’t bear to see a woman cry, especially a young woman like you; it breaks my heart, old as it is, and fool that I am, that ought to know your sex better by this time than to let a few tears drown my common sense. Well, young lady, be that as it may, since you won’t tell me your mind, I must tell you your mind, for I happen to know it—Yes, I do—your mother bid me spare your delicacy, and I would, but that I have not time; besides, I don’t understand, nor see what good is got, but a great deal of mischief, by these cursed new-fashioned delicacies: wherefore, in plain English, I tell you, I don’t like Sir John Hunter, and I do like Captain Walsingham; and I did wish you married to Captain Walsingham—you need not start so, for I say did—I don’t wish it now; for since your heart is set upon Sir John Hunter, God forbid I should want to give Captain Walsingham a wife without a heart. So I have only to add, that notwithstanding my own fancy or judgment, I have done my best to persuade your mother to let you have the man, or the baronet, of your choice. I will go farther: I’ll make it a point with her, and bring you both together; for there’s no other way, I see, of understanding you; and get a promise of her consent; and then I hope I shall leave you all satisfied, and without any mysteries. And, in the mean time,” added Mr. Palmer, taking out of his coat pocket a morocco leather case, and throwing it down on the table before Amelia, “every body should be made happy their own way: there are some diamonds for Lady Hunter, and God bless you.”
“Oh, sir, stay!” cried Amelia, rising eagerly; “dear, good Mr. Palmer, keep your diamonds, and leave me your esteem and love.”
“That I can’t, unless you speak openly to me. It is out of nature. Don’t kneel—don’t. God bless you! young lady, you have my pity; for indeed,” turning and looking at her, “you seem very miserable, and look very sincere.”
“If my mother was here!—I must see my mother,” exclaimed Amelia.
“Where’s the difficulty? I’ll go for her this instant,” said Mr. Palmer, who was not a man to let a romance trail on to six volumes for want of going six yards; or for want of somebody’s coming into a room at the right minute for explanation; or from some of those trivial causes by which adepts contrive to delude us at the very moment of expectation. Whilst Mr. Palmer was going for Mrs. Beaumont, Amelia waited in terrible anxiety. The door was open; and as she looked into the gallery which led to her room, she saw Mr. Palmer and her mother as they came along, talking together. Knowing every symptom of suppressed passion in her mother’s countenance, she was quite terrified, by indications which passed unnoticed by Mr. Palmer. As her mother approached, Amelia hid her face in her hands for a moment, but gaining courage from the consciousness of integrity, and from a determination to act openly, she looked up; and, rising with dignity, said, in a gentle but firm voice—“Mother, I hope you will not think that there is any impropriety in my speaking to our friend, Mr. Palmer, with the same openness with which I have always spoken to you?”