Although reflections of this nature crowded on Colin's mind in a heavy throng, as he gazed on the poor made-up form before him, still he could not entirely free himself from the impression which her appearance had previously produced upon him. That which was artificial, and affected to others, was not so to his perceptions, for his inexperience would not allow him to see it. The appearance of modesty was to him real modesty; of grace, was grace; of lightheartedness and joy, as real as though a single care had never entered that bosom since the day it first stemmed the rude tide of the world. And as for the rest,—just as with every other imperfection which may exist in the object of any lover's hopes—so was it with hers. Through familiarity they were soon overlooked; and, like the shadows on the moon, though they chequered, they did not extinguish the general light.
At the conclusion of the performance Mr. Wintlebury borrowed ten shillings of Colin,—promising to pay him again as soon as he could get into work,—and they parted for the evening. Our hero returned to his humble bed in Mrs. Popple's garret, to pass a restless night amidst strangely-mingled visions of tavern concerts and beautiful singing ladies.
As, in his present state of feeling, there was nothing which in his heart Colin so much desired as an opportunity of obliging his second-floor neighbour, Miss Wintlebury, it luckily happened that in the course of a very short time she failed not to afford him various opportunities of so doing, having in all probability been taught her cue by the brother. After some trifling requests, such as borrowing tea, &c., she at last ventured, though very reluctantly indeed, to ask the loan, just for three days, of four pounds fifteen, if he could possibly do her that great obligation, in order to satisfy the impudent demands of the apothecary, the tea-dealer, the baker, and the butcher, who severally and respectively had peremptorily cut off the supplies.
All these friendly applications Colin responded to with unparalleled promptitude, although the last one so very materially enlarged the hollow of his purse, that he began to marvel how he himself should contrive to clear his way as far as to the end of the next fortnight.
This position of affairs somewhat aroused him from the idle day-dream in which he had been indulging. It was time, high time, that he set about doing something to earn a subsistence; for, besides the amount he had thus expended in supplying the wants of others, he had also lessened his stock very rapidly by attending nightly at the concert-room to hear his mistress's voice, which he thought the finest in the world, and to rejoice over the popular applause with which she there seldom failed to be greeted. For, singular as it may appear, he had never yet met with her in their own house, nor exchanged a single word with her in private upon any occasion whatever. His personal introduction yet remained to be made.
Several subsequent days he spent in various futile endeavours to obtain employment. Some, who otherwise would have engaged him, wanted a character from his last place. He had none to give; and, therefore, was denied the opportunity of earning one. Others required a person partially acquainted with their business; and so his services could not be rendered available. Meantime he had not neglected to call once or twice at the Yorkshire House, and inquire whether any letter had arrived there directed for him. No. The Squire had not written in reply to the letter he had despatched from that place, and all hope of deriving assistance from that quarter seemed, of course, entirely banished. “Doubtless,'” thought he, “Mr. Lupton has heard some bad accounts of me, and has wholly given me up.” In this conjecture our hero was, however, totally mistaken. Mr. Lupton had not yet returned from the excursion of a few weeks' duration, of which he spoke when Colin was at the Hall; and, consequently, had not seen the letter in question. Neither, had he done so, would his return have been of any avail in this particular instance; since it most unfortunately happened for Colin that on the day but one following the arrival of his epistle, it so fell out that Doctor Rowel was called to attend the Squire's housekeeper upon the attack of a sudden illness. On this occasion, while left in the drawing-room alone, the doctor's eye chanced to alight upon a number of unopened letters lying on the table, in readiness for the owner of the mansion on his arrival; and amongst them he espied one, on the corner of which was written the name of “Colin Clink.” He hastily took it up; stole a glance at its contents by shining it against the sun; and, finding it to contain certain very serious statements touching himself, he took a bold step at once, and, regardless of consequences, put it into the fire. Before the servant returned to conduct him up stairs, every vestige of the letter had totally disappeared. Thus had Doctor Rowel not only for the time being saved himself, but also obtained that knowledge of which he stood in much need,—the knowledge of Colin's place of retreat and particular address. Of these he instantly resolved to make the earliest possible use.
Disappointed in all his expectations, and defeated in every endeavour to obtain the means of making a livelihood, Colin returned to his little domicile, and on the spur of the moment wrote a very dolorous letter to his mother and Fanny, in which he set forth all his recent disasters, and the trouble he was now in, adding, that unless something or other to his advantage turned up very shortly he should scarcely know which way to turn himself for a living.
And yet, when he thought the matter more calmly over again, after the letter was despatched, and could not be recalled, he plucked up heart, and for another evening at least drove away care by retiring to the Condor Tavern, and taking his accustomed place within easy sight of the adorable Harriet Wintlebury.