Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY
or, _A Cloud with its Silver Lining_
By Frank E. Smedley
Author Of “Frank Fairlegh,”
“Lewis Arundel,” “Harry Coverdale’s-Courtship,” Etc.
London: George Routledge And Sons, Limited
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
[Illustration: 0008]
THE FORTUNES OF THE COLVILLE FAMILY.
CHAPTER I.--THE TWO PICTURES.
“A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!”
Words, of course, in themselves good and well-chosen, and embodying
a wish which all who love their neighbour should feel and
communicate;--God in his mercy grant there may be very many who can
respond to such a salutation hopefully; for in this Valley of the Shadow
of Death there must be some who shrink from it as from a bitter mockery.
Of such are those who, loving deeply, have lost, or fear to lose,
the object of their fond idolatry; of such are those to whom, gifted,
perhaps, with an even wider capacity of affection, such a fear would
seem a blessing, for then they would not have toiled through a lifetime
lonely-hearted. “A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!” God comfort
those who shudder at such kindly greeting!
One short month since, a little space of time, but more than long enough
for the performance of many a deeper tragedy than that to which we are
about to refer, an artist, glancing into the sunny breakfast-parlour of
Ashburn Rectory, might have made a pretty picture of the group on which
his eye would have fallen.
That _gentleman_ (in rags he would equally have looked such) with the
calm, high forehead, mild eye, and earnest, thoughtful mouth, must be
the father of the family; for his dark hair shows many a silver thread,
and the lines that appear upon his still smooth brow can scarcely be
the result of mental occupation only; but, if we are right in our
conjecture, whence did that curly-pated nine-year-old urchin, seated
upon his knee, contrive to get his arch, merry face? for he can scarcely
have “come alive” out of one of Murillo’s paintings, to give light and
life to our family sketch. Oh! we see, it is his mother’s countenance
the rogue has appropriated, only the mischief in it is all his own; for
the expression of her still-beautiful features is chastened and pensive,
as of one who has lived and loved, and done angels’ work on earth, until
the pure soul within has stamped its impress on the outward form.
But if you want something pretty--nay, we may as well tell the whole
truth, and say at once bewitching--to look at, cast your eyes (you won’t
be in a hurry to remove them again) upon the figure seated at mamma’s
right hand, and recognising her facsimile (with twenty summers taken off
her age, and barely eighteen left), declare whether that is not “nice,”
rather. The expression is not the same, we confess: more of the woman
and less of the angel, you will say. We admit it; but then, how could
that little rosebud of a mouth look anything but petulant? those violet
eyes express--well, it’s difficult to tell what they don’t express that
is good, and fresh, and piquant, and gay, and--must we add? a little bit
coquettish also;--why, the very dimple on her chin--such a well-modelled
chin--has something pert and saucy about it. There! you’ve seen enough
of the little beauty: you’ll be falling in love with her directly!
No one could mistake the relationship existing between the gentleman
we have already described, and that tall, graceful boy, with his pale,
finely-chiselled features, and classically-shaped head. Even the earnest,
thoughtful expression is common to both father and son, save that the
curl of the short upper lip, which tells of pride in the boy, has, in
the man, acquired a character of chastened dignity.
Reader, do you like our picture? Let us turn to another, less pleasing,
but alas! equally true.
The waves of time roll on, and, like a dream, another month has lapsed
into the sea of ages.
The sun is shining still; but it shines upon an open grave, with aching
hearts around it. A good man has died, and his brave, loving spirit has
gone whither his faith has preceded him, and his good works alone can
follow him. “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.”
Let us reserve our sympathy for those who live to mourn them.
When the curate of Ashburn preached a funeral sermon, recalling to the
minds of those who had practically benefited by them the virtues of
their late rector, holly garlands hung in the fine old church, to
commemorate the birth-time of One who came to bring “peace on earth, and
good-will towards men;” but none dared to wish the widow and orphans
“A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year,” lest the wish might seem an
insult to their sorrow.