Thus should religion’s influence serene
Be felt in all our thoughts, in all our actions seen!”
But it was not thus with Timon Bardon. He could repeat the Lord’s prayer,—did repeat it twice every day, without once starting at the thought, that he was in it constantly invoking a curse on his own vindictive soul! Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us! Was that a prayer for one who treasured up the memory of a wrong far more jealously than that of a benefit? for one who prided himself on being “a good hater;” and who spoke of “the sweetness of revenge?” Bardon reprobated with indignation the mean vices of covetousness, falsehood, or fraud,—he was ready to call down fire from heaven on the tyrant, the traitor, or the thief; but he granted, in his own person, a plenary indulgence, a perfect tolerance to pride, hatred, malice, revenge—sins as destructive to the soul as the darkest of those which he condemned.
Bardon was too poor to be a subscriber to the —— Magazine; but he was always allowed a reading of that which was taken in at the Vicarage, and, indeed, Aumerle, though his friend little guessed the fact, subscribed chiefly on account of the doctor. But Bardon was far too impatient to know whether the countess had written in this Number, to endure waiting for a second day’s reading. He did not choose to go to the Vicarage to betray his eagerness there, but he resolved to walk the whole six miles to Pelton, in order to purchase a copy for himself.
“You must have pressing business indeed at the town, papa, to walk so far in the sun on such a warm day as this!” cried Cecilia in a tone of expostulation, as she fanned herself with a languid air. “I’m sure that the heat will kill you.”
“Not so easily killed,” said the doctor gaily; “there’s nothing like air and exercise for keeping a man in health.”
“You have received a call to some patient?” said Cecilia, encouraged by his cheerfulness to venture upon a subject which was usually forbidden, for Bardon’s patients were “few and far between.”
“There’s one who won’t prove patient, I guess,” replied Bardon inwardly chuckling at the joke.
His mind was so full of his errand that, though the road was extremely dusty, and the sun shot down fervid rays, Bardon was scarcely conscious either of discomfort or fatigue. He walked on as briskly as if the frost of December braced his nerves and rendered rapid motion necessary. Bardon was glad, however, when his journey drew near its end, and he reached the High Street of Pelton, with its rows of tidy shops, to one of which—the library—he now bent his eager steps. He glanced rapidly over the window in hopes to recognise the well-known cover of the —— Magazine amongst prints, envelopes, and daily papers; it was not, however, to be seen, and Bardon entered the library.
There was at first no one sufficiently disengaged to be able to attend to the doctor, and Bardon had to wait with what patience he could muster, taking off his hat, and wiping his heated forehead, and looking around him, but in vain, for the Number which he had walked so far to see.