CHAPTER XVI.—AND LAST.—THE MORAL DRAWN VERY MILD!
Once again it was Christmas-day. At Ashburn Priory the plum-pudding was a “great fact;” Hugh Colville said so, and he ought to have known, for he ate enough, not to say too much, of it to test its merits—at least, if there be any truth in the old proverb, that “the proof of the pudding is in the eating.” But there were other good things at Ashburn Priory beside-plum-pudding. Love and Joy and Peace dwelt there, and pure Religion shed her mild light upon that happy household. The cloud which had hung over the fortunes of the Colville family had passed away, and the silver lining alone remained to testify that, although
“In every life some rain must fall,
Some days be dark and dreary,’
yet that rain falls only to fertilise the ground, and enable it to bring forth fruit and flowers; and the metaphor holds good in the case before us. The sorrow which had fallen upon the Colville family had been a chastening sorrow, and its effects were to be recognised in a goodly crop of virtues.
The proud and sensitive disposition of Percy had been strengthened and fitted for intercourse with the every-day world, by the rough teaching of the commercial-school, and he was about to enter on his Oxford career, a wiser and a better man than a more refined mode of education would have rendered him.
Hugh’s volatile and impetuous disposition had been also favourably acted upon, by the misfortune which caused him to be placed under Doctor Donkiestir’s firm and judicious rule; and he had learned one essential requisite for a soldier’s profession, on which, since he had been to spend a day with Norman (now a captain in the —th Lancers) at the Flatville Barracks, he had set his heart, viz., obedience.
Mrs. Colville was almost perfect when we were first introduced to her; but the loss of one she had loved so well had taught her to place her affections still more firmly on “things above.”
As for the Rosebud—bless her!—all that the cloud had done for her was to make her the most charming little wife that ever has been, or ever will be; and if Ernest Carrington had not thought so, and doated upon her accordingly, we would, even at this eleventh hour of our tale, have procured her a divorce, and married her to a duke. But if we had been compelled to take so decided a step, we should have been sorely puzzled how to dispose of an autocratic and imperative baby, with a loud soprano voice, a decidedly dangerous temper, and a general tipsiness of appearance, which had established itself at the Priory, and was said by everybody to be the image of its parents—a statement which, unlike the plum-pudding of immortal memory, was not a great fact, but to speak mildly, an enormous— ’tother thing!
If any one cares to know what became of Mr. Slowkopf, we beg to state that after Emily’s marriage, he grew day by day more and more heavy and dejected, till at last he—died of a broken heart?—by no means—married Caroline Selby, on the principle of the Persian saying: that if she wasn’t the Rose (bud), she had dwelt near the Rose (bud). Moreover, they are very happy together, and live at the Rectory; Ernest having, on Mr. Slowkopf’s marriage, resigned the living in his favour, although he still generally preaches once every Sunday in Ash-burn Church, and once at the new chapel-of-ease at Satanville; for, in Ernest, riches had wrought no change, save, that by enabling him to extend his charities, his sphere of usefulness was enlarged. His darling wish is now fulfilled: he is free to devote his whole time and talents to the welfare of others; and his position, as both lord of the manor and spiritual pastor, affords him opportunities for carrying out his schemes for the amelioration, moral and physical, of the labouring classes, with a degree of success which few philanthropists are so fortunate as to obtain.
Reader, our tale is told. Should it assist you to while away some rainy morning of life, and at the same time lead you to remember that, above the clouds which lour so heavily, the blue heaven lies in its deep tranquillity, and the glorious sun still shines brightly, able, when it shall be God’s good pleasure, to dispel the darkness that oppresses you, and again shed its light and warmth into your spirit—the end for which this sketch has been traced will be answered.