Sir Thomas Crawley paced up and down his handsome library, a prey to anxiety!—much depended on the turn events might take over which he had no control, but which yet must exercise a great and lasting influence on his future career. A ministerial crisis was at hand, and the party to which Sir Thomas belonged would either be turned out, or would retain their position reinforced by a coalition with some of their opponents, and thus become stronger than they had ever before felt themselves. If they went out, Sir Thomas was prepared, cleverly and respectably, to “rat,” and come in again with the opposition; but if they remained in, he was equally prepared to adhere to them with the most unshakable fidelity, and to make himself as generally useful and agreeable as in him lay: either way he trusted to see his services rewarded by a baronetcy, and he was only waiting for this desirable consummation, to make an offer of his bad heart, and dirty hand, to the ugly younger daughter of a very aristocratic, disagreeable, old nobleman. If he succeeded in all this, he told himself he should have reached the height of his ambition, and mentally promised his conscience (for, reader, he had a conscience as well as you and I, though-we, in our superior sanctity, regard it as a poor limp, damaged, washed-out piece of goods, and look down upon it accordingly, like two fine old English Pharisees as we are) to give up sneaking, and shuffling, which he called tact and policy, and live virtuously ever after, as became a member of the aristocracy—thus fitting himself to proceed, via the family vault, to take possession of some equivalent for the Ashburn estates in another world, in regard to which he was fain to own that his title at present was a little—-just a very little—doubtful. What a bad man Sir Thomas was, to be sure! How lucky, dear reader, that you and I are so much better than he!
But Sir Thomas had two friends in the ministry, Messrs. Tadpole and Taper (the Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli knows them, and has made notable mention of them in his tale of “Coningsby”), whose views were exactly in accordance with his own, i.e.—to take the best possible care of their own interests, and (whenever that purpose could be best insured by their so doing) of each other’s also; and Sir Thomas had that morning received the following note, marked “private and confidential,” from his friend Tadpole:—
“Dear Sir Thomas,—I have just learned, from an unmistakable quarter, that it is Lord ————-’s (naming the Premier for the time being) intention to apply to you for your living of Ashburn for the nephew of Mr. —————, the colonial Bishop of Boreanigger. The coalition is still quite upon the cards, so it would scarcely be advisable to say ‘no;’ while, if they go out, which is more than probable, to say ‘yes’ would be certain to give offence where you would least wish to do so. I would therefore suggest that, if you have not already filled up the vacancy, it would be most desirable to do so without delay, and you will thus avoid the difficulty—verbum sat.
“I am, dear Sir Thomas, yours very faithfully.
“A. Tadpole.”
“P.S. You will kindly bear in mind that clerkship in the Woods and Forests; young Grig, Mrs. Tadpole’s nephew, is a very promising lad, and in good hands might do credit to his patron.”
Sir Thomas read and re-read the letter. How fortunate that Tadpole had ferreted out this information! but for that he might have been forced to commit himself irrevocably to the wrong side—horrible idea! Yes, Tadpole was right: the living must be disposed of without an hour’s delay: who should he give it to? It must be some one without political influence or connection, Zest he should give offence to either party! At this moment, from one of those strange chances which occasionally appear to determine the whole destiny of a lifetime by the agency of a mere trifle, Sir Thomas knocked some papers off his desk, and as he stooped to pick them up, the card Ernest Carrington had sent in some weeks before fell from among them. He raised it, and regarding it fixedly, as though he were scrutinizing the person whose name it bore, muttered—
“Young Carrington, he is in the Church—why should not he do? He might, of course, be had at a minute’s notice;—£800 a year would be a fortune to him;—besides, there’s policy in the thing—I find North Park (a farm of some five hundred acres) is in the entail; if he were to get scent of it, and could obtain access to the papers, he might claim it any day; his boyish, chivalrous scruples are sure to wear out; this would bind him to me by the the of gratitude: he is just one of those hot-headed, romantic dispositions that are always absurdly grateful. Gad! I could not have hit on a fitter person; I’ll write to him at once: I’ve got his direction, somewhere”—as he spoke, he began tossing over papers and letters in search of the missing direction. “A very good thought,” he continued; “I could see through that young fellow in a minute; he may be managed as easy as a child, if you only take advantage of his weak points. I like ’em of what they call an open disposition; they show you their whole hand at starting; it’s your close, crafty, quiet dogs that are the hardest to deal with. I shall make a point with him that he gets every farthing out of that proud, haughty Mrs. Colville, and her conceited, stuck-up minx of a daughter; they’ve looked down upon me, and never liked me, I know: they’ll be sorry for it some day.”
Ernest Carrington, when he returned to his rooms after morning school, found two letters on his table. The first he opened was from Dr. Donkiestir, and ran as follows:—
“My Dear Sir,—It is with considerable pain that I feel it ny duty to urge upon you the propriety of resigning your position, as Mathematical and Classical Master, at the school of which I have the honour to be Principal. As regards talent and acquirements, I have never before had so able an assistant, but there are other qualities necessary in the onerous position of second-master of such a school as that over which I have, since its establishment, presided, which are equally important. In these qualities, the injudicious manner in which you this morning allowed, what I admit to have been an impulse of generous feeling, to hurry you into a breach of scholastic discipline, which a more hasty man than myself might have construed into a personal insult, proves you to be utterly wanting. It is to avoid the possibility of your again placing both yourself and me in such a false and difficult position, that I thus reluctantly press upon you the advisability of your immediate resignation. When a few more years shall have passed over your head, maturing your judgment, and tempering your impulsive disposition, I can conceive you will prove eminently qualified for the responsible, yet interesting office of an instructor to youth. In the meantime, I would advise your looking out for a curacy, or a situation as tutor to some young nobleman about to travel. I shall have much pleasure in giving you unexceptionable testimonials for such a purpose, or in furthering you. interest, to the extent of my power, in any other manner you may point out.—Awaiting your reply,
“I remain, dear Sir,
“Yours very faithfully,
“John Hannibal Donkiestir, D.D.”
“So that is my reward for my philanthropy, is it?” was Ernest Carrington’s mental comment as he finished perusing the Doctor’s letter. “Well, I daresay I did wrong to interfere, but I should hate myself if I could have sat by and watched the expression in that boy, Percy Colville’s, beautiful face, or listened to that poor little child’s heart-broken sobs, and not tried to help them—I’m glad I’ve saved the little fellow, at all events; no more teaching for me; I’d sooner go out as a missionary, and try to wash blackamore heathens into piebald Christians than that. Well, now for a curacy, hard labour, and genteel starvation on £80 a year; never mind, I shall be my own master, at all events, and may do some good amongst the poor people: no drudgery can be worse than this horse-in-a-mill life I have been leading of late. A letter from Sir Thomas Crawley. What can he want of me? I’ve no more birthrights to sell for a mess of pottage;” and with such hard, but not unnatural, thoughts running in his brain, he broke the seal, and read as follows—
“My dear young Kinsman,—Ever since I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and learning the very sensible views you hold on all topics, political and religious—views which agree so remarkably with my own—I have been turning in my mind how best I may assist you, and have come to the conclusion that I cannot better discharge my duty as a patron of ecclesiastical preferment, than by offering you my living of Ashburn, now vacant. The parish contains from six hundred to six hundred and fifty souls, and the living is worth eight hundred per annum, with a parsonage-house and glebe attached; you will thus be rendered independent of any pecuniary difficulties, and able to apply your mind entirely to that deeply interesting subject, the religious and social improvement of the labouring classes. I have only two provisos to make:—one is, that if you approve of the position I offer you, you will signify your acceptance of it by return of post (my reason for this I will explain satisfactorily when we meet); the other, that you promise to urge your claim upon the estate of the late incumbent for dilapidations in the house and glebe. I am sure you will agree with me, that the Church is bound, in this latitudinarian age, to protect her property; and I can bestow’ my living upon no one who will not give me a distinct pledge upon this point.
“I remain, my dear young kinsman,
“Your affectionate friend and relative,
“Thomas Crawley, K.C.B.”
Poor Ernest! The revulsion of feeling was almost too much for him, and in his contrition for the hard thoughts he had entertained of Sir Thomas Crawley, he dashed off a hasty letter, full of generous feeling and overflowing with gratitude, in which he thankfully accepted the living, and pledged himself to see full justice done to the interests of the Church as embodied in the Ashburn Rectory dilapidations: he was sorry for it afterwards, when—— but we must not anticipate.
Reader! dear reader! nay, on the chance of your being a young lady, and, therefore, necessarily charming, we will go the whole length of the adjective, and say at once, dearest reader! (of course, asking your pardon for the liberty, and feeling quite sure you are only too ready to grant it, because you are such an amiable sex) don’t you think—(by the way, how very becoming that new plan of plaiting a pig-tail of your back hair, and twisting it round like a coronal over your front hair, is to you—it gives quite a Classical, Grecian, Etruscan, and all that sort of thing, style to your contour)—don’t you think, dearest reader, that we have for much too long a time lost sight of, and practically ignored, and altogether cruelly and abominably deserted, and neglected, the Rosebud of Ashburn? and she all the while, in the self-denial of her nature (a species of self-denial, by the way, which would be very generally practised and become exceedingly popular, if we were but sufficiently philanthropic to divulge the recipe), has only been growing prettier and more fatally fascinating every day.
Oh, that dangerous, irresistible little Rosebud! There she sat, looking as demure as if she wasn’t always ready to smash any amount of hearts into the smallest possible pieces, on the shortest notice imaginable, toiling busily over an absurd little crochet purse, which she was manufacturing literally “by hook and by crook,” against Mr. Selby’s birthday, when she intended to present him with it “to keep all his sovereigns in;” though if he could have kept all his sovereigns in that pretty little folly, the said folly would very soon have had a sinecure, and poor Mr. Selby have been a ruined snob, instead of a prosperous one.
Now, we do not object to mention in confidence, though we should not wish it repeated, that the Rosebud, albeit a most dutiful and affectionate daughter, had, since the boys went to school, found her life very dull and monotonous, and was getting decidedly “hard up” for excitement;—pleasurable excitement would, of course, have been her choice, but even a little mild persecution would not have come amiss, in this dearth of variety: she had expected Sir Thomas Crawley would have given away the living, and some horrid interloper have arrived to turn them out of house and home long ere this, but no; day after day passed by without producing even the ghost of an incident, and the unfortunate and victimised Rosebud was reduced to sit by herself and look pretty, without any one to reap the benefit thereof. What a cruel situation for a vivacious Rosebud!
Mrs. Colville had been absent nearly an hour, and Emily, who stayed at home to get on with her crochet (for the next day was the eventful birthday, and she was alarmed lest her offering should not be ready in time), had been all by her small and pretty self, and had croched away so hard that she had croched herself into a headache;—perceiving this to be the case, she laid down her work and fell a thinking, and having nothing agreeable to reflect upon in the present, she began to “try back,” till she had mentally jibbed as far as the day when she, and her friend Caroline, had been frightened by the footpad, and rescued by an interesting young stranger, whom you and I, dearest reader, know to have been Ernest Carrington, although the Rosebud was still in ignorance of that fact. From sheer listlessness and want of anything better to think about, Emily began speculating as to whom her deliverer could possibly have been, and whether, by any odd chance, she should ever meet him again, and if so, whether he would recollect her, or she him, when it occurred to her to try if she could remember his features well enough to sketch them. Emily had rather a talent for taking likenesses, so she provided herself with a pencil and a piece of paper, and drew away till she had produced, what an auctioneer would have termed, a “splendid portrait of a nice young man.” Having accomplished this feat, she held up her performance to scrutinise it, drawing back her head and bending her slender neck from side to side, like some graceful bird, till she got the light to fall properly upon her sketch,—“Yes, I think that is very like him,” she said, “only it hasn’t got quite his expression—there was something so calm and—spiritual, I suppose it would be called, in his look; he was very handsome, certainly; I wonder who he could be!” Resuming her pencil, she added two or three finishing touches, then appended to it her initials, and the date, with the intention of adding it to a select gallery of portraits of remarkable ball-partners, and other heroes of her imagination, which reposed inviolate within the sacred precincts of her writing-desk; but, at this moment, the house-door opened and Mrs. Colville entered, so hastily that Emily had only time to thrust her portrait between the leaves of the nearest book (which happened to be a volume of Blair’s Sermons), ere her mother had joined her.
“Mamma, you are tired,” she said, as Mrs. Colville, hurriedly drawing off her gloves, seated herself on the sofa; observing her more attentively, she continued, “You look pale, and—— You are not ill? Has anything happened?”
Mrs. Colville smiled faintly. “I am not ill, darling,” she said, “but—but—the new rector is appointed, and we must leave this house next week;” and overcome by the idea of quitting the home where she had passed so many happy years with him who was no more, but whom she had loved, nay, still loved so well (for hers was one of those rare and true affections which only begin on earth), the widow burst into tears. In an instant, Emily flew to her side, quietly removed her bonnet, and then, with the delicate instinct of a true woman’s nature, feeling that her sympathy could best be shown by silent tenderness, she gently drew her mother’s head towards her till it rested on her bosom, and suffered her to weep unrestrained. But Mrs Colville, although on this occasion the suddenness of the shock had overcome her habitual self-control, was by no means a weak character, and she soon recovered herself.
“I did not mean to distress you thus, dearest,” she said “but the announcement was made to me so abruptly; Sir Thomas—I do not wish to speak against him—but he is not a man of any delicacy of feeling.”
“He!” interrupted Emily, “he has no more feeling than the most obdurate old paving-stone that ever refused to be macadamised.”
“He has certainly not shown much consideration towards us in our sorrow,” returned the widow, “but I bear him no ill-will: he only exacts his legal rights, and I have no business to blame because nature has not gifted him with delicate perception. But I was going to tell you: Mr. Selby received a note from him this morning, saying—but here it is; Mr. Selby gave it to me to show you.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Colville placed the note in her daughter’s-hands. It ran thus:—
“Dear Sir,—I have at length found a suitable person on whom to bestow the living of Ashburn. The new incumbent will read himself in on Sunday next. I presume, from the length of time which has elapsed since the late rector’s decease, that his family have quitted the parsonage. Should this not be the case, will you apprise Mrs. Colville of my desire that she should do so with as little loss of time as possible. The gentleman to whom I have given the preferment, holds most strongly the same views as myself, as to the necessity of guarding against the deterioration of Church property, and has, at my suggestion, written to Mrs. Colville’s solicitor, to announce his intention of claiming, to the utmost farthing, the sum due for dilapidations; which debt I depend upon you to see liquidated. You will oblige me by doing everything in your power to facilitate all arrangements the new rector may wish to make. I leave Ashburn early to-morrow for London; therefore shall be glad to see you this evening, when I can explain my intentions more fully.
“I remain, dear sir,
“Yours, &c.,
“Thomas Crawley, K.C.B.”
“What a cruel, heartless letter!” exclaimed Emily; “and this horrible new rector appears to be as unfeeling as his patron, but of course Sir Thomas lias picked out some dreadful old creature like himself; he had better have given the living to dear, tiresome Mr. Slowkopf than to this unpleasant man. But mamma, dearest, what is to become of us?”
“Mr. Selby advises my taking the cottage on the common,” was the reply: “it will just hold us and the boys, and I do not wish to quit this neighbourhood, at least till Percy is old enough to leave school.”
“Well, the plan has its advantages; it would break my heart to leave dear Caroline, certainly,” rejoined the Rosebud, musing; “the worst feature in the case is this dreadful new rector—I’ve taken a thorough aversion to him already—it is so unpleasant to dislike one’s clergyman! I know he will be horrible, I’ve a presentiment about him, and my presentiments always come true.”
And so the Rosebud chatted on, partly to make up for her long silence, and partly to divert her mother from the sad thoughts which she could see were still depressing her, till Sarah coming to lay the cloth for their frugal meal, she tripped off to get ready for dinner, quite forgetting a certain portrait she had sketched; and Mrs. Colville, being of a neat and orderly disposition, perceiving a stray volume of Blair’s Sermons lying about, put it, and all it contained, away in its proper place in the book-shelves.
Saturday came, and with it the new rector; he was to stay at Mr. Selby’s till the rectory was ready for him. Despite her prejudices and presentiments, the Rosebud was decidedly curious to see him, and actually made a pretence to gather some flowers for the drawing-room (although they were to leave on Monday), in hopes that, hidden behind the great laurel, she might catch a glimpse of him in the act of arriving, Caroline having told her by what train he was to travel. But unfortunately, after waiting a quarter of an hour, she had just gone into the house for the garden-scissors, when the railway fly drove past, and her utmost endeavours only enabled her to catch the retreating outline of—a black leather portmanteau. Before she went in, however, Mr. Slowkopf, who in his heavy way was always extremely gallant towards the Rosebud, made his appearance, clad in his best suit of black (which was inferior to any other clergyman’s worst), on his way to dine chez Selby, and be introduced to his new rector; and hearing from the young lady (who looked upon him in the light of a half-childish grandpapa, or thereabouts) that she wished to learn something of the appearance, manners, habits, customs, zoology, pathology, ethnology, and general statistics, of the illustrious stranger, he promised to look in for five minutes on his way home (being Saturday night, he should come away very early), and report progress.
Of course Emily told her mamma of this arrangement, and of course Mrs. Colville smiled, and called her a silly little goose for not having patience to wait till to-morrow; adding that, for her own part, she was used to Mr. Slowkopf, and should be sorry to see any one else in his place; and then with a sigh she quitted the room.
Ten o’clock came, and with it Mr. Slowkopf, who looked and felt rather peculiar, which might be accounted for by the fact that his usual beverage was spring water, but that, on the evening in question, he had been prevailed upon to drink two or three glasses of wine. Instead of creeping into the most lonely corner of the apartment, and finding something uncomfortable to sit upon, he advanced boldly into the room, and saying cheerfully, “Well, you see, ladies, here I am,” he drew an arm-chair exactly between Mrs. Colville and the fire, and seated himself thereupon, chuckling with the air of a man conscious of a good joke, but completely in the dark as to what might be the nature or subject thereof.
The Rosebud was so deeply affected (in what manner we leave our readers to guess) by this unaccountable behaviour, that she dared not trust herself to speak; so Mrs. Colville, seeing that the curate appeared likely to chuckle himself to sleep without making any further attempts at conversation, began—
“Well, Mr. Slowkopf, are your never going to satisfy our curiosity?”
Thus abjured, that individual started, looked round in confusion, and then in some degree relapsing into his usual manner only smiling vacantly all the time, he said—
“Before I can comply with your request, my dear madam, I must inquire to what particular subject the curiosity to which you allude especially applies?”
“Oh! Mr. Slowkopf, you’re only trying to tease,” exclaimed Emily, recovering her voice and her curiosity simultaneously. “Of course about the new rector: what’s he like? come tell us—quick!”
“He’s like,” replied the curate, pausing on each syllable, as if conversation were an electric telegraph office, and he had to pay extra for every additional word he uttered—“he’s very like—most other young clergymen.”
“Then he is young?” continued Emily interrogatively: “is he tall, gentlemanly, handsome?”
“He’s not, at least as far as I observed—but such things don’t make much impression on me” (“I wonder what does!” was Emily’s sotto voce comment)—“but I should say, he’s not what would be generally called—hard-featured. I only hope,” he continued solemnly—“I only hope that he may turn out sound: there was something I didn’t like about that Hock.”
“Indeed!” returned Emily, looking very grave, with the exception of her eyes, which were laughing wickedly, “incipient spavin, perhaps.”
For a moment Mr. Slowkopf gazed at her in sheer amazement; then a faint consciousness of her meaning gradually dawned upon him, and he replied—
“Similarity of sound has not unnaturally misled you in regard to the import of my observation, Miss Emily: the Hock to which I alluded was not, as you conceive, the elbow-joint of a horse’s hind-leg, but a choice sample of Rhenish wine, hospitably produced by Mr. Selby for our gratification; in regard to which Mr. Carrington was pleased to observe that it was not the only good thing that came from Germany—a remark which I conceived might refer to the German school of theology, whence, by logical progression, I was led to doubt the soundness of the new rector’s doctrinal views.”
And having delivered himself of this ponderous explanation, Mr. Slowkopf rose up as suddenly as if he had been propelled by a spring, after the fashion of that much-enduring public character Jack-in-a-box, and abruptly taking leave of the two ladies, broke his shins over a chair, and was gone.
“Why, mamma dear, what has come to the creature?” exclaimed Emily: “is he going entirely to take leave of the few senses wherewith nature has so scantily endowed him?”
“You’re too pert to him, my love,” was the reply; “he’s a very excellent young man; and always drinking water at home, is naturally more elated by a glass or two of wine, than a less abstemious person would be.”
“Oh! that is the secret, is it—the wretch; I shall send him some teetotal tracts to-morrow. I’ve got ‘A Voice from the Pump,’ and ‘Cold Comfort for chilly Christians,’ still left: they’ll suit his case charmingly.”
And so saying, the incorrigible Rosebud tripped off to bed where, straightway falling asleep, she dreamed, that being in church, and the new rector turning out to be a fine young piebald centaur, she clearly perceived, as he cantered up the pulpit stairs, whisking a most unclerical switch tail, that he was decidedly spavined in the off hind-leg.
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?
Ernest was true to his word—all that spring and summer he worked at his sermons and his parish, like an ecclesiastical galley-slave, till the volume was finished, and all the people had become so good, that if it had not been for christenings, weddings, and funerals, they would scarcely have required the services of a clergyman at all. Indeed, carrying out the doctrine of self-denial logically, and to its fullest extent, we doubt whether a rectory might not be regarded as a superfluous luxury, a kind of canonical pomp and vanity, and therefore a stumbling-block to be removed from the spiritual highway of that super-excellent community.
But writing sermons, and instilling pure and heavenly principles into the decidedly earthly minds of small shopkeepers and needy agricultural labourers, albeit a high and sacred calling, considered abstractedly and as a whole, is yet, taken in detail, a very trying vocation to a man possessing, in no common degree, a taste for intellectual pursuits, and a strong appreciation of refined society. Thus it came to pass that one fine morning (it was the 12th of August) Ernest, having written a report of a district meeting for the propagation of the Gospel in parts so very foreign that the propagators themselves would have been puzzled to find them on the map, leaned back in his chair and wondered how sundry college friends of his were getting on among the grouse, when a note in the Rosebud’s handwriting was brought to him. With sparkling eyes and a slight accession of colour to his pale cheeks, he read as follows:—
“Dear Mr. Carrington,—Mamma is very ill—how ill I do not know—and fear to learn. Mr. Pillanbill (do you consider him clever?) tells me not to be alarmed, which frightens me terribly. May I hope you will come to us—poor mamma is able and anxious to see you, and you will tell me whether anything else can or ought to be done. Yours sincerely,
“Emily Colville.”
Within ten minutes after the note had reached him Ernest was at the cottage. Emily received him with a blush and a smile. “How kind and good of you to come so quickly!” she said. Tears trembled in her eyes. Ernest had never seen her look so pretty.
“How good of you to send for me!” he replied: “I hope,” he continued—“I hope it proves that I am forgiven?”
Emily hung her head—“If you please, we will never refer to that again,” she said, entreatingly; “I was very proud and foolish, and behaved very ill; but you are wise enough to forgive, and kind enough to forget: is it not so?”
Ernest took her hand and pressed it warmly, nor was it immediately withdrawn.
Mrs. Colville was seriously ill; and having sat with her for some time, the rector obtained her permission to inquire whether Mr. Pillanbill would object to meet Dr. Twiggit, and learn if they agreed in their view of the case, just to satisfy Miss Colville’s natural anxiety.
Mr. Pillanbill graciously consented. Dr. Twiggit resided ten miles off, and had too good a practice near home to make it worth his while to poach upon his (P.‘s) manor for the sake of a single outlying patient with a limited purse. So Dr. Twiggit was summoned, and came; he was a little man, with a large hooked nose and an ornithological cast of countenance, as of a shrewd fowl. Having strutted and clapped his wings, and, so to speak, crowed over the apothecary and the Rosebud, and looked as if he would have liked uncommonly to fight Ernest for a handful of barley, he entered the sick-room, where first, with two little bright bead-like eyes, he looked clean through poor Mrs. Colville into the mattress and feather-bed; next, he stretched out a claw to feel her pulse; then he pecked at her to make her put out her tongue; then he shook his feathers and crowed over her; and then he chased Pillanbill round and out of the room for the consultation, which ran thus:—
Twiggit.—“Clear case!”
Pillanbill.—“No mistake.”
Twiggit.—“Hepatico-cerebreosistosis, first stage.”
Pillanbill.—“Quite so.”
Twiggit.—“What have you thrown in?”
Pillanbill hands prescription. Hydrarg:—mysterious cipher, looking like a 3 with two heads—Rhei: pulvo:—another cipher, worse than the first, &c., &c.
Twiggit reads—“Hum! yes, ha! good!” (returns prescription), “can’t be better—ar—I think that is all to-day, ar—needn’t send for me unless any symptoms of spiflicatio appear, and then it will be too late; keep the feet warm, head cool, nourishing slops, bland puddings—but you know—good morning.”
So saying, the talented M.D., who was in himself a modern instance of the mythical relation existing between Esculapius and the cock, strutted out to his carriage a richer man by five-guineas than he had been when he quitted that vehicle.
Mrs. Colville’s was a very severe illness, and at one time her state was most critical; but, thanks to a patient and resigned spirit, and an excellent constitution, after three weeks of intense anxiety to those who watched over her, she began to show symptoms of amendment. From the day on which Ernest had received the Rosebud’s summons, to the happy moment when Doctors Twiggit and Pillanbill took their leave, he had shown the unceasing affection of a son towards Mrs. Colville, and of a brother towards Emily. Hour after hour had he attended the sick woman’s bedside, reading to her or conversing with her on those all-important subjects that, at such seasons, become invested with a deep and solemn interest which in our happier moments they too often fail to excite in our weak and fallen natures. And as Emily sat by, and heard the words of the inspired volume, rendered yet more beautiful and impressive by the correct taste, true feeling, and rich mellow voice of the reader; or listened, as, with a wisdom beyond his years—a wisdom not of this world—Ernest explained away difficulties, and threw the clear light of a strong and vigorous understanding on the great truths of our Holy Religion, what wonder if some of the reverence and affection, which such teaching must excite in every pure and gentle bosom, grew to cling around the teacher? Or what wonder, either, that when Ernest saw the scornful, capricious, half-childlike little coquette, whose sparkling beauty had charmed his fancy, change, the instant sorrow laid its chastening touch upon her brow, into the thoughtful, tender devoted woman,—the ministering angel beside the couch of sickness, whose gentle, never-failing tact and quiet power of steadfast, patient endurance, man’s stronger, more energetic nature, may envy, but can never attain to;—what wonder if, where he had before admired, he now grew to love?
It is a good thing to love! So much mawkish sentimentality and bombastic nonsense, so many white-muslined tears and boarding-school sentimentalities, have been heaped around its counterfeit, that healthy minds not unnaturally scoff at the passion—until they feel it! and thus has one of the highest emotions of which our nature is capable, been brought into undeserved disrepute. A deep, true, earnest, unselfish affection, such as an honest man (“the noblest work of God”) is capable of feeling for a woman worthy to call it forth, raises, purifies, and spiritualises his whole being, enlarges his sympathies, and (by affording a new motive for exertion) stimulates his faculties, and thus causes him to do the work he may lay his hand to, better than he would have executed it without such an incentive. The Apostle tells us, “If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar;” and a great truth is embodied in the text;—a nature capable of forming a deep, unselfish attachment to one of God’s creatures, raises its possessor in the scale of creation, and enables him to adore his Maker and love his fellows with a zealous earnestness and reality, of which a self-engrossed character is incapable—therefore, as we began by saying—it is a good thing to love!
As Mrs. Colville’s recovery progressed, it was Ernest Carrington who drew her about in her garden-chair, and as she grew yet stronger, it was on his arm she leaned when, with feeble steps, she began once again to resume her daily walks; and as, with grateful heart, Emily watched the colour slowly returning to her mother’s pale cheeks, she almost felt as if it was to Ernest that she owed her beloved parent’s restoration.
One morning, about a month after Mr. Pillanbill had finally taken leave, and when every vestige of his first syllable had been swallowed, and his last syllable (which was a very long one) had been paid, Ernest, whilst waiting until Mrs. Colville was ready for her accustomed walk, had a letter with a foreign postmark put into his hand. Emily, who watched him while he read it, saw him start and change colour.
“Is anything the matter?” she inquired, as he refolded the letter.
“Yes—no—that is, I think you cannot any longer be anxious about Mrs. Colville: her health, thank God, is perfectly restored.
“Oh yes, I trust so,” was the reply, “but why do you ask?’
“Because I must leave you for a time; and if you felt nervous or uncomfortable about your mother, we could arrange for Percy to return a week or two before the holidays—what do you say?—he might be a comfort to you?”
As Ernest spoke, he stooped to pick up the envelope of the letter, and thus failed to observe that Emily started and turned pale when he said he must leave her. The letter was from Sir Thomas Crawley’s valet; his master was very ill—dangerously ill, he was afraid; he had been unwell for some time, and had gone to Baden for change of air; but instead of recovering, he had grown worse every day, until finally, after a long interview with his medical advisers, he desired Hemmings to write to Mr. Selby and Mr. Carrington, begging them to come out to him without delay, and bring with them some clever English physician. When Mrs. Colville appeared and learned this intelligence, she fully agreed with Ernest that no time should be lost in setting off; and after a few minutes’ conversation on the subject, the rector rose to take his leave, saying that he should probably start the next morning.
“Mamma has persuaded me to go for an hour or two to the Selbys this evening; Caroline would take no refusal, and Miss Plainfille is coming to sit with mamma. Shall I see you there?” asked the Rosebud, quietly.
“Well then, farewell, dear Mrs. Colville,” exclaimed Ernest warmly, having answered Emily’s question in the affirmative; “I leave you in very good hands, and expect to find you stronger than ever when I return.”
The evening at the Selbys was a very pleasant one, both to Emily and to Ernest, only instead of two hours, it appeared to last about ten minutes.
“Mr. Carrington, I’m afraid I must be rude enough to ask you to step into my office and look at the arrangements I have made for our journey to-morrow,” observed Mr. Selby, late in the evening.
“Certainly, I will follow you in one moment,” was the reply.
There was a small apartment opening out of the drawingroom, fitted up as a boudoir for the benefit of Caroline Selby. In this snuggery the two young ladies had been looking over some water-colour sketches, but Caroline Selby had just been called away, and the Rosebud was left by herself. At that instant Ernest joined her.
“Emily,” he said, and his voice was low and tremulous—“Emily, I have come to bid you good-bye.”
“Must you go already?” was the rejoinder.
“Indeed, I fear so,” returned Ernest. There was a pause, and then he resumed, in a voice which trembled with emotion, “Emily, we have been very happy of late.”
“Oh, yes!” she murmured, almost unconsciously.
“And you,” he continued—“you have been very kind and gentle. Emily, you will not forget me—will not grow cold towards me again?”
She made no reply, but her silence was more eloquent than words. At that moment Mr. Selby’s footstep sounded on the stairs.
“I must go,” Ernest resumed: “Emily, dear Emily! goodbye;—God bless you!” He took her soft, warm little hand in his own; she allowed him to retain it unresistingly: he pressed it, and his heart beat quickly when he felt the pressure faintly but unmistakably returned. With a sudden impulse he raised the little hand, still imprisoned in his, to his lips, kissed it, and tore himself away. As he paused to close the door, a slight sound caught his ear: could it be a sob?
How long it might have been after his departure ere the noise of approaching voices roused Emily from the mental abstraction into which she had fallen, that young lady herself never knew—it might have been one minute, it might have been ten. When she did awake to a sense of outward things, the following speech from the lips of Mrs. Selby, a good-natured, vulgar woman, arrested her attention:—
“And so, ma’am, if Sir Thomas Crawley dies, which my husband fears is only too probable, Mr. Carrington is as likely to be his heir as anybody I can think of.”
“And then he’ll go and marry that pert stuck-up Emily Colville, I suppose” (the speaker was Mrs. Pillanbill, who owned three awful daughters, unattached); “that girl’s played her cards well, and no mistake. It was easy to see she set her cap at him from the first—probably calculated on his being Sir Thomas’s heir all along. Oh, she’s a deep one, trust her!”
And as the speakers passed on, their words became inaudible in the distance; but Emily had heard too much for her peace of mind. All night long she lay awake weeping—for she resolved, if Ernest should be Sir Thomas’s heir, and asked her to become his wife, she must and would refuse him, if the resolution broke her heart.
Oh, Rosebud! Rosebud! beware of pride—the sin that peopled hell!