An unfortunate necessity existing to compress this our veracious
history of “the Fortunes of the Colville Family” within the limits
of one small volume, a great many incidents on which we would gladly
expatiate can merely be sketched in outline, while we must leave the
reader’s imagination to till in the details.
Amongst these “fancy portraits” must be included the pretty face of our
little heroine, characterised by the look of astonishment with which
she recognised, in her new spiritual pastor, the handsome hero of the
footpad adventure, together with the becoming blush consequent upon the
discovery.
Another leaf of the sketch-book must be devoted to Percy and Hugh’s
first return for the holidays, and their delight in renewing their
acquaintance with their kind friend and protector at Tickletown,
together with the consequent intimacy which ensued between the cottage
and the rectory.
The new incumbent soon won “golden opinions” from rich and poor. Sir
Thomas Crawley, who had wriggled himself into the new ministry, and
obtained the appointment of envoy to the court of one of the German
potentates--a position which he hoped would secure for him the baronetcy
as a retiring pension--had taken up a superstitious notion that his
success was a reward for the good action of appointing Ernest Carrington
to the living of Ashburn; and in order still to propitiate the tickle
goddess, he continued to heap favours upon his _protégé_, till worthy
Mr. Selby, unaccustomed to such freaks of benevolence on the part of
his patron, began to fear the air of Germany had produced some strange
effect upon Sir Thomas’s brain.
Mr. Slowkopf, too, had gradually arrived at the conviction that Mr.
Carrington was “a most praiseworthy and remarkable young man,” and, once
assured that he had no lingering affection for modern Teutonic heresies,
he yielded himself to the-fascinations of his rector’s manner and
address, and became one-of the most devoted of his admirers.
Faithful to his pledge, Ernest exacted every farthing of the
dilapidations to which he had a legal claim; but then he took-at a
valuation Mrs. Colville’s furniture and live stock (comprising Samson
the pony, an orthodox and superannuated cow, some fine old Protestant
cocks and hens, the annual pig, and the perennial yard-dog, which latter
individual always barked at the wrong time, _would_ go to church, and
howl at the singing-psalms, whenever he could get loose, and cost rather
more to feed than did his new master), and, trusting to the widow’s
ignorance of business matters, contrived to pay a sum for these
conveniences which made the dilapidations fall very lightly upon her
pocket.
Whether Mrs. Colville was more clear-sighted than he-expected, or
whether his kind interference to protect Hugh from punishment, of which
she heard an account from Percy, had won her heart, certain it is that
the dislike with which the widow was prepared to view her lost husband’s
successor, soon changed to an almost maternal regard for the young man
who so well performed the duties which Mr. Colville’s death had left
unfulfilled. The only person who appeared insensible to the merits of
this general favourite, was the capricious little Rosebud; but she, very
early in the session, seceded to the opposition benches, and constituted
in her own pretty person a formidable minority of one.
Nearly two years had elapsed since our tale began, and Percy and Hugh
were again at home for their Christmas holidays. The party, consisting
of Mrs. Colville and Emily, the two boys, their cousin Wilfred--now
promoted to tail coats and a stool in the paternal counting-house--and
the rector and curate, who, having _happened_ to look in, had been
asked to stay to tea, were gathered round the fire in the snug little
drawingroom in the cottage. There had been a pause in the conversation,
of which Mr. Slowkopf availed himself to address the Rosebud.
“It is a singular and remarkable fact, Miss Emily,” he-began in his
usual deliberate manner: “it is a most singular and remarkable fact,
that, intimate as I have long had the-privilege of being in this family,
I never, until this morning when Master Hugh obligingly gave me an
account of the transaction, was aware of your having been alarmed by a
footpad, And providentially rescued by the benevolent interference of
our excellent rector here and as he spoke he indicated Ernest by a
flap of his larboard fin, with about as much grace as a seal might have
displayed under similar circumstances.
“Ay, what was that?” inquired Wilfred Goldsmith, eagerly. “Tell us about
it, Shortshanks” (an elegant Tickletonian sobriquet for Hugh): “I like
to hear of shindies.”
Thus appealed to, Hugh, nothing loth, proceeded to give a full, true,
and particular account of the adventure; which, as Ernest was aware
that he must have derived his information originally from the Rosebud
herself, he listened to with a quiet smile,--more particularly when he
heard himself described asa tall and graceful young man, of singularly
prepossessing appearance.
“Well, it was a plucky thing well done, and I give you credit for it,
Mr. Carrington,” was Wilfred’s comment, as Hugh concluded.
“Really I’m quite overpowered,” returned Ernest, with an affectation
of extreme humility: “my poor exertions were a great deal too humble to
deserve an eulogium from Mr. Wilfred Goldsmith.” Wilfred, who since we
last heard of him had altered only by becoming in every respect “rather
more so,” winced slightly, for he knew that Ernest was laughing at
him:--lest any one else should make the same discovery, he hastened to
divert attention by attacking his fair relative.
“You must have been finely astonished, Cousin Emily,” he said, “when
you recognised the interesting knight-errant-peeping over the
pulpit-cushion.”
“Did you know him again directly, Emmy?” inquired Hugh.
“Of course she did,” rejoined Wilfred. “Do you think she did not dream
of the features of her gallant deliverer twice a week regularly for the
next half year, at least?”
“Indeed, I did nothing of the kind, you absurd boy!” exclaimed the
Rosebud, eagerly. “As well as I remember, I did happen to recognise Mr.
Carrington, but I really wonder that I should have done so; for I was
so dreadfully frightened on the first occasion, that I could think of
nothing but the horrible man who had attempted to take my money and as
the proud Puss uttered this slightly apocryphal statement, she gave her
head a little pettish toss, which meant a great deal, and expressed its
meaning unmistakably--at least so thought Ernest Carrington; and the
grave expression of his face became graver than ever.
“Talking of falling among thieves,” began Mr. Slowkopf, addressing
Ernest, “reminds me of the last time I met you.”
“Complimentary, very,” muttered Wilfred, _sotto voce_.
“We were then discussing the subject of white lies, as they are called,”
resumed Mr. Slowkopf; “now I have since recollected a passage in one of
the sermons of that learned and excellent divine, Blair, which affords
a curious commentary on what we are saying. I cannot remember his words,
but you’ll find it in the fourth sermon in the second volume.”
“We have Blair’s Sermons,” remarked Mrs. Colville; “they are on the
book-shelves by you, Mr. Carrington, if you wish to refer to the
passage.”
“The second volume, I think you said, Slowkopf?” inquired Ernest, taking
down the book as he spoke. Receiving an affirmative grunt, the young
clergyman turned his chair, so that the firelight fell strongly on the
book, leaving his face in shadow, which circumstance prevented the fact
from transpiring, that scarcely had he opened the volume when he gave a
sudden start, then coloured violently, and then examined the page before
him most carefully and minutely. Having completed his investigation,
he turned over two or three leaves, and, in his usual voice and manner,
read aloud the paragraph to which the curate had referred.
In the meantime, Hugh, by dint of coaxing, had inveigled his mother into
providing the materials for a bowl of snapdragon, wherein, to his great
delight, Mr. Slowkopf was induced solemnly, heavily, and perseveringly,
to burn his reverend fingers in fishing out almonds and raisins, which
he invariably dropped, for Hugh to pick up and eat. Just when the fun
was at its highest, and even Mrs. Colville joining heartily in the
chorus of laughter, Ernest approached the Rosebud, with the volume still
in his hand, and said quietly--
“Pray, Miss Colville, do you ever study Blair’s Sermons?”
“Oh, I have read some of them,” was the reply; “but why do you ask?--are
you afraid I shall find you out if you appropriate the worthy man’s
ideas?”
“On the contrary, he appears to have appropriated something of mine,”
was the answer.
“Indeed! and what might that be?” returned the Rosebud, wholly
unconscious of the dangerous ground upon which she was treading.
“Only, as Mr. Slowkopf judiciously observed, a very singular commentary
on the subject we were discussing--white lies!” was the reply; and as he
spoke, Ernest opened the volume he held in his hand and disclosed to
the eyes of the horrified Rosebud, a certain pencil-sketch, with its
tell-tale date and initials, which possibly the reader may not have
forgotten as entirely as the fair artist had done.
In an instant a crimson blush suffused her face and neck, and turning
away her head, she struggled successfully against a strong inclination
to burst into tears; recovering herself, she said hastily, and in a tone
which indicated a mixture of wounded feeling and of anger--
“I consider you have insulted me, Mr. Carrington; it is most
unkind--unworthy of you!”
What Ernest might have replied to this especially unpleasant address,
can never be known; for at that moment, Mr. Slowkopf, in an agony of
digital combustion, overturned the bowl of snapdragon, and, during
the confusion which ensued, Emily contrived to leave the drawing-room
unobserved.
For some reason or other, Ernest did not sleep very well that night; and
the first thing next morning he wrote a note explanatory and apologetic,
to the Rosebud, and having despatched it, sat down to finish his sermon,
but got no farther than “Dearly beloved,” till the messenger returned.
The answer contained his epistle unopened, and the following note:--
“Miss Colville presents her compliments to Mr. Carrington, and begs to
say, that as any discussion of the occurrence of yesterday evening must
be equally useless and painful, she has thought it most advisable to
return his note unread. Miss Colville trusts Mr. Carrington will not
allow this silly affair to influence his manner towards Miss Colville or
the boys, as such an interruption to an intimacy which is so agreeable
and beneficial to them, would prove a source of deep and additional
annoyance to her.”
Ernest was very sorry for what he had done, but he saw this was not
the fitting time to endeavour to repair the breach; so being a sensible
young man, he let the Rosebud have her own wilful way; and when the boys
returned to school, informed Mrs. Colville he was about to prepare a
volume of sermons for publication, which would occupy all his leisure
hours; and that she must not think he meant to cut her, if his visits
assumed the angelic property of being “few and far between;”--as he
said this, he observed the Rosebud’s eyes fixed upon him with a peculiar
expression in them--could it be regret?