Once again it was Christmas-day. At Ashburn Priory the plum-pudding was
a “great fact;” Hugh Colville said so, and he ought to have known, for
he ate enough, not to say too much, of it to test its merits--at least,
if there be any truth in the old proverb, that “the proof of the pudding
is in the eating.” But there were other good things at Ashburn Priory
beside-plum-pudding. Love and Joy and Peace dwelt there, and pure
Religion shed her mild light upon that happy household. The cloud which
had hung over the fortunes of the Colville family had passed away, and
the silver lining alone remained to testify that, although
“In every life some rain must fall,
Some days be dark and dreary,’
_yet_ that rain falls only to fertilise the ground, and enable it to
bring forth fruit and flowers; and the metaphor holds good in the case
before us. The sorrow which had fallen upon the Colville family had been
a chastening sorrow, and its effects were to be recognised in a goodly
crop of virtues.
The proud and sensitive disposition of Percy had been strengthened and
fitted for intercourse with the every-day world, by the rough teaching
of the commercial-school, and he was about to enter on his Oxford
career, a wiser and a better man than a more refined mode of education
would have rendered him.
Hugh’s volatile and impetuous disposition had been also favourably
acted upon, by the misfortune which caused him to be placed under Doctor
Donkiestir’s firm and judicious rule; and he had learned one essential
requisite for a soldier’s profession, on which, since he had been to
spend a day with Norman (now a captain in the --th Lancers) at the
Flatville Barracks, he had set his heart, viz., obedience.
Mrs. Colville was almost perfect when we were first introduced to her;
but the loss of one she had loved so well had taught her to place her
affections still more firmly on “things above.”
As for the Rosebud--bless her!--all that the cloud had done for her was
to make her the most charming little wife that ever has been, or ever
will be; and if Ernest Carrington had not thought so, and doated upon
her accordingly, we would, even at this eleventh hour of our tale, have
procured her a divorce, and married her to a duke. But if we had been
compelled to take so decided a step, we should have been sorely puzzled
how to dispose of an autocratic and imperative baby, with a loud
soprano voice, a decidedly dangerous temper, and a general tipsiness of
appearance, which had established itself at the Priory, and was said by
everybody to be the image of its parents--a statement which, unlike
the plum-pudding of immortal memory, was not a great fact, but to speak
mildly, an enormous-- ’tother thing!
If any one cares to know what became of Mr. Slowkopf, we beg to state
that after Emily’s marriage, he grew day by day more and more heavy and
dejected, till at last he--died of a broken heart?--by no means--married
Caroline Selby, on the principle of the Persian saying: that if she
wasn’t the Rose (bud), she had dwelt near the Rose (bud). Moreover, they
are very happy together, and live at the Rectory; Ernest having, on Mr.
Slowkopf’s marriage, resigned the living in his favour, although he still
generally preaches once every Sunday in Ash-burn Church, and once at the
new chapel-of-ease at Satanville; for, in Ernest, riches had wrought no
change, save, that by enabling him to extend his charities, his sphere
of usefulness was enlarged. His darling wish is now fulfilled: he is
free to devote his whole time and talents to the welfare of others; and
his position, as both lord of the manor and spiritual pastor, affords
him opportunities for carrying out his schemes for the amelioration,
moral and physical, of the labouring classes, with a degree of success
which few philanthropists are so fortunate as to obtain.
Reader, our tale is told. Should it assist you to while away some rainy
morning of life, and at the same time lead you to remember that, above
the clouds which lour so heavily, the blue heaven lies in its deep
tranquillity, and the glorious sun still shines brightly, able, when it
shall be God’s good pleasure, to dispel the darkness that oppresses you,
and again shed its light and warmth into your spirit--the end for which
this sketch has been traced will be answered.