CHAPTER XIII.—AN ‘ELEGANT EXTRACT’ FROM BLAIR’s SERMONS.
An unfortunate necessity existing to compress this our veracious history of “the Fortunes of the Colville Family” within the limits of one small volume, a great many incidents on which we would gladly expatiate can merely be sketched in outline, while we must leave the reader’s imagination to till in the details.
Amongst these “fancy portraits” must be included the pretty face of our little heroine, characterised by the look of astonishment with which she recognised, in her new spiritual pastor, the handsome hero of the footpad adventure, together with the becoming blush consequent upon the discovery.
Another leaf of the sketch-book must be devoted to Percy and Hugh’s first return for the holidays, and their delight in renewing their acquaintance with their kind friend and protector at Tickletown, together with the consequent intimacy which ensued between the cottage and the rectory.
The new incumbent soon won “golden opinions” from rich and poor. Sir Thomas Crawley, who had wriggled himself into the new ministry, and obtained the appointment of envoy to the court of one of the German potentates—a position which he hoped would secure for him the baronetcy as a retiring pension—had taken up a superstitious notion that his success was a reward for the good action of appointing Ernest Carrington to the living of Ashburn; and in order still to propitiate the tickle goddess, he continued to heap favours upon his protégé, till worthy Mr. Selby, unaccustomed to such freaks of benevolence on the part of his patron, began to fear the air of Germany had produced some strange effect upon Sir Thomas’s brain.
Mr. Slowkopf, too, had gradually arrived at the conviction that Mr. Carrington was “a most praiseworthy and remarkable young man,” and, once assured that he had no lingering affection for modern Teutonic heresies, he yielded himself to the-fascinations of his rector’s manner and address, and became one-of the most devoted of his admirers.
Faithful to his pledge, Ernest exacted every farthing of the dilapidations to which he had a legal claim; but then he took-at a valuation Mrs. Colville’s furniture and live stock (comprising Samson the pony, an orthodox and superannuated cow, some fine old Protestant cocks and hens, the annual pig, and the perennial yard-dog, which latter individual always barked at the wrong time, would go to church, and howl at the singing-psalms, whenever he could get loose, and cost rather more to feed than did his new master), and, trusting to the widow’s ignorance of business matters, contrived to pay a sum for these conveniences which made the dilapidations fall very lightly upon her pocket.
Whether Mrs. Colville was more clear-sighted than he-expected, or whether his kind interference to protect Hugh from punishment, of which she heard an account from Percy, had won her heart, certain it is that the dislike with which the widow was prepared to view her lost husband’s successor, soon changed to an almost maternal regard for the young man who so well performed the duties which Mr. Colville’s death had left unfulfilled. The only person who appeared insensible to the merits of this general favourite, was the capricious little Rosebud; but she, very early in the session, seceded to the opposition benches, and constituted in her own pretty person a formidable minority of one.
Nearly two years had elapsed since our tale began, and Percy and Hugh were again at home for their Christmas holidays. The party, consisting of Mrs. Colville and Emily, the two boys, their cousin Wilfred—now promoted to tail coats and a stool in the paternal counting-house—and the rector and curate, who, having happened to look in, had been asked to stay to tea, were gathered round the fire in the snug little drawingroom in the cottage. There had been a pause in the conversation, of which Mr. Slowkopf availed himself to address the Rosebud.
“It is a singular and remarkable fact, Miss Emily,” he-began in his usual deliberate manner: “it is a most singular and remarkable fact, that, intimate as I have long had the-privilege of being in this family, I never, until this morning when Master Hugh obligingly gave me an account of the transaction, was aware of your having been alarmed by a footpad, And providentially rescued by the benevolent interference of our excellent rector here and as he spoke he indicated Ernest by a flap of his larboard fin, with about as much grace as a seal might have displayed under similar circumstances.
“Ay, what was that?” inquired Wilfred Goldsmith, eagerly. “Tell us about it, Shortshanks” (an elegant Tickletonian sobriquet for Hugh): “I like to hear of shindies.”
Thus appealed to, Hugh, nothing loth, proceeded to give a full, true, and particular account of the adventure; which, as Ernest was aware that he must have derived his information originally from the Rosebud herself, he listened to with a quiet smile,—more particularly when he heard himself described asa tall and graceful young man, of singularly prepossessing appearance.
“Well, it was a plucky thing well done, and I give you credit for it, Mr. Carrington,” was Wilfred’s comment, as Hugh concluded.
“Really I’m quite overpowered,” returned Ernest, with an affectation of extreme humility: “my poor exertions were a great deal too humble to deserve an eulogium from Mr. Wilfred Goldsmith.” Wilfred, who since we last heard of him had altered only by becoming in every respect “rather more so,” winced slightly, for he knew that Ernest was laughing at him:—lest any one else should make the same discovery, he hastened to divert attention by attacking his fair relative.
“You must have been finely astonished, Cousin Emily,” he said, “when you recognised the interesting knight-errant-peeping over the pulpit-cushion.”
“Did you know him again directly, Emmy?” inquired Hugh.
“Of course she did,” rejoined Wilfred. “Do you think she did not dream of the features of her gallant deliverer twice a week regularly for the next half year, at least?”
“Indeed, I did nothing of the kind, you absurd boy!” exclaimed the Rosebud, eagerly. “As well as I remember, I did happen to recognise Mr. Carrington, but I really wonder that I should have done so; for I was so dreadfully frightened on the first occasion, that I could think of nothing but the horrible man who had attempted to take my money and as the proud Puss uttered this slightly apocryphal statement, she gave her head a little pettish toss, which meant a great deal, and expressed its meaning unmistakably—at least so thought Ernest Carrington; and the grave expression of his face became graver than ever.
“Talking of falling among thieves,” began Mr. Slowkopf, addressing Ernest, “reminds me of the last time I met you.”
“Complimentary, very,” muttered Wilfred, sotto voce.
“We were then discussing the subject of white lies, as they are called,” resumed Mr. Slowkopf; “now I have since recollected a passage in one of the sermons of that learned and excellent divine, Blair, which affords a curious commentary on what we are saying. I cannot remember his words, but you’ll find it in the fourth sermon in the second volume.”
“We have Blair’s Sermons,” remarked Mrs. Colville; “they are on the book-shelves by you, Mr. Carrington, if you wish to refer to the passage.”
“The second volume, I think you said, Slowkopf?” inquired Ernest, taking down the book as he spoke. Receiving an affirmative grunt, the young clergyman turned his chair, so that the firelight fell strongly on the book, leaving his face in shadow, which circumstance prevented the fact from transpiring, that scarcely had he opened the volume when he gave a sudden start, then coloured violently, and then examined the page before him most carefully and minutely. Having completed his investigation, he turned over two or three leaves, and, in his usual voice and manner, read aloud the paragraph to which the curate had referred.
In the meantime, Hugh, by dint of coaxing, had inveigled his mother into providing the materials for a bowl of snapdragon, wherein, to his great delight, Mr. Slowkopf was induced solemnly, heavily, and perseveringly, to burn his reverend fingers in fishing out almonds and raisins, which he invariably dropped, for Hugh to pick up and eat. Just when the fun was at its highest, and even Mrs. Colville joining heartily in the chorus of laughter, Ernest approached the Rosebud, with the volume still in his hand, and said quietly—
“Pray, Miss Colville, do you ever study Blair’s Sermons?”
“Oh, I have read some of them,” was the reply; “but why do you ask?—are you afraid I shall find you out if you appropriate the worthy man’s ideas?”
“On the contrary, he appears to have appropriated something of mine,” was the answer.
“Indeed! and what might that be?” returned the Rosebud, wholly unconscious of the dangerous ground upon which she was treading.
“Only, as Mr. Slowkopf judiciously observed, a very singular commentary on the subject we were discussing—white lies!” was the reply; and as he spoke, Ernest opened the volume he held in his hand and disclosed to the eyes of the horrified Rosebud, a certain pencil-sketch, with its tell-tale date and initials, which possibly the reader may not have forgotten as entirely as the fair artist had done.
In an instant a crimson blush suffused her face and neck, and turning away her head, she struggled successfully against a strong inclination to burst into tears; recovering herself, she said hastily, and in a tone which indicated a mixture of wounded feeling and of anger—
“I consider you have insulted me, Mr. Carrington; it is most unkind—unworthy of you!”
What Ernest might have replied to this especially unpleasant address, can never be known; for at that moment, Mr. Slowkopf, in an agony of digital combustion, overturned the bowl of snapdragon, and, during the confusion which ensued, Emily contrived to leave the drawing-room unobserved.
For some reason or other, Ernest did not sleep very well that night; and the first thing next morning he wrote a note explanatory and apologetic, to the Rosebud, and having despatched it, sat down to finish his sermon, but got no farther than “Dearly beloved,” till the messenger returned. The answer contained his epistle unopened, and the following note:—
“Miss Colville presents her compliments to Mr. Carrington, and begs to say, that as any discussion of the occurrence of yesterday evening must be equally useless and painful, she has thought it most advisable to return his note unread. Miss Colville trusts Mr. Carrington will not allow this silly affair to influence his manner towards Miss Colville or the boys, as such an interruption to an intimacy which is so agreeable and beneficial to them, would prove a source of deep and additional annoyance to her.”
Ernest was very sorry for what he had done, but he saw this was not the fitting time to endeavour to repair the breach; so being a sensible young man, he let the Rosebud have her own wilful way; and when the boys returned to school, informed Mrs. Colville he was about to prepare a volume of sermons for publication, which would occupy all his leisure hours; and that she must not think he meant to cut her, if his visits assumed the angelic property of being “few and far between;”—as he said this, he observed the Rosebud’s eyes fixed upon him with a peculiar expression in them—could it be regret?