Sunday was a day of great eating at Carleton-terrace—in short, Mrs. Wilson, on that day, indulged the household in a dinner, the usual week-day meals not deserving the name. On these occasions Master Pem. eat till he could eat no more, and paused in silent regret, that nature had provided such insufficient stowage. The scholar, James, was less eager, but more select, and ever sent up his plate, accompanied with some especial direction, as to the particular dainties he desired. Mr. Wilson's efforts did not fall far short of those of his offspring; and if vexed by any errors in elegance, on the part of his wife, regaled the party over a bottle of port, with some choice anecdotes of various celebrities, fashionable and political, which smacked strongly of the commercial-room—frequent repetition might have robbed them of their first freshness, but his family were well trained, and always laughed at the right place.
Sunday morning, at church, was perhaps the proudest moment of Mr. Wilson's life, when he stood erect and spruce in his pew; and, condescendingly, classed himself in audible tones with the other "miserable sinners" of the congregation. No part of the service did he neglect—he even joined in the singing, with a voice so utterly discordant, that Kate absolutely started, and turned to look from whence the horrid sounds proceeded, the first time she heard them. Church was the grand theatre of display to Mesdames Jorrocks and Wilson and the great proportion of their acquaintances; and a lively topic of conversation on their return home.
"Did you see what a velvet mantle Mrs. B——, have on? asks the mother."
"Yes; it cost ten guineas, if it cost a penny," returns the daughter.
"And her husband be deep in the "great Midland;" maybe, next year she'll have to wear Linsey-woolsey."
"You never see such lace as Miss F. had, trimming her bonnet—that depth," cried Mrs. Wilson, with eager rapidity, and holding out a finger, &c.
Then came a few words on the sermon, which was quickly despatched; and thus was the interval between church and dinner whiled away; and though it may place Miss Vernon very far back on the list of any sanctified reader, it must be confessed she never looked forward with much pleasure to the day of rest. Mr. Wilson's anecdotical powers were rather too much to endure for an entire sabbath day.
The third month of Kate's purgatorial sojourn, was opening gloomily enough, when one Sunday morning, as they were assembled at breakfast, in more than usually gorgeous array—as a popular preacher was expected to draw "a full house—" a loud ring announced the post.
"I'll engage it's for Miss Vernon," said Mrs. Jorrocks, "I never see such a many letters as you do get."
But Kate did not heed her, her eyes were fastened on the letter handed across the table by Master Pem. who detained it to read the direction, observing—"It's a gentleman's hand," and eliciting a stern—"Hold your tongue, sir," from his father. A mist swam before Kate's eyes, and a spasm of hope and fear shook her heart as she recognised Langley's hand, "it must be a letter from Mr. Winter," she murmured, "will you allow me?" and with trembling fingers broke the seal—but no, it was from Langley himself. Oh, Heavens! had any thing happened.