This statement was none of the truest.
“To be sure,” said the hasty parson, forgetting about the Rushford bells, the rheumatic clerk, and the quid–chewing pilots—let them turn their quids a bit longer—“to be sure, I will take you there at once. Allow me to introduce myself. How very stupid of me! Octavius Pell, Mr. Rosedewʼs curate at Rushford.”
Hereupon “Pello, pepuli, pulsum” (as his friends loved to call him from his driving powers at cricket, and to show that they knew some Latin) executed a noble salaam—quite of the modern school, however, and without the old reduplication (like the load on the back of Christian)—till the duckweed came out of his hat in a body, and fell into the flounce tucket of the beautiful Pearlʼs white skirt.
She never looked, though she knew it was there—that girl understood her business—but curtseyed to him prettily, having recovered strength by this time; and there was something in his dry, manly tone, curt modesty, and breeding, without any flourish about it, which led the young maid to trust him, as if she had known him since tops and bottoms.
“I am Pearl Garnet,” said she, imitating his style unconsciously, “the daughter—I mean I live at Nowelhurst Dell Cottage.”
Coræbus had cut off for stable long ago, with three long weals from bamboo upon him, which he vowed he would show to Amy.
“Please to take my arm, Miss Garnet. You are not very strong yet. I know your brother well; and a braver or more straightforward young gentleman never thought small things of himself after doing great ones.”
Pearl was delighted to hear Bobʼs praises; and Mr. Pell treated that subject so cleverly, from every possible point of view, that she was quite astonished when she saw the Rectory side–gate, and Octavius, in the most light–hearted manner, made a sudden and warm farewell, and darted away for Rushford. How good it is for a sad, heavy heart to exchange with a gay and light one!
“Hang it! after that let me have a burster!” was his clerical ejaculation, “or else it is all up with me. I hope we havenʼt spilt the sermon, though, or got any duckweed down it. Duckweed, indeed; what a duck she is! And oh, what splendid eyes!”
He ran all the way to Rushford, at a pace unknown to Coræbus; and his governor–coat flew away behind him, with the sermon banging about, and the text peeping out under the pocket–lap. “Swear not at all,” were the words, I believe; and a rare good sermon it must have been, if it stuck to the text under the circumstances.