Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 4

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"What power is there like love! One gentle word

Or tender glance more potent is to soothe

The raffled brow, by anger overcast,

Than all the bitter might of stern reproof!"

—BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

A week after Clayton and his villainous companions had laid their plans to fasten the terrible crime of forgery upon Mr. Percy Sinclair, that gentleman and a friend were riding together, homeward bound from Cambridge. It was night, but far different from the dismal, rainy night that Clayton had repaired to his rendezvous with Darby Gregson and Bow. Through the clear frosty air the stars sparkled like living diamonds; and the broad bosom of the earth was shrouded in a robe of spotless white; while the bare limbs of the trees, and roofs of the farm-houses, were covered with the feathery snow flakes. They were trotting briskly; but, reaching a rough part of the road, they drew rein, and, as they walked their horses carefully over the ruts made by the late rains, resumed the conversation that had been interrupted by the rapid pace they had been travelling at.

'You were saying, Sinclair, that you thought of entering the church. Now, I think that a man with your powers should choose the legal profession. There are dolts enough for clergymen, without the pulpit monopolising all the talent of the country!' said George Darrell, a college friend of Mr. Sinclair's.

'I differ with you, Darrell. I think there is no-more honorable use to put the talent you are pleased to credit me with than to the service of heaven! You appear to me to hold strangely inconsistent views upon this subject. Now, if you admit the truth of eternal punishment and reward, you must concede the necessity of having those, whose privilege it is to preach salvation, men able as well as willing to fulfil their sacred office with success. And if you deny our theology, why have the clergy at all? No, Darrell, the cause of our church being so lukewarm and paralysed is the presence of so many incapable in our pulpits.'

'Hem! Be that as it may, I think the country needs clever statesmen quite as much as able preachers, and as I believe you possess, in a high degree, the powers necessary, you will see why I endeavour to dissuade you from entering holy orders. A good man needs little more than a mediocrity of brains to become a good clergyman, or even a bishop; but a great statesman—and our country is sorely in need of such just now—must possess mental endowments of a far higher order.'

'I will allow, Darrell, that a Pitt or a Fox requires to be a far cleverer man, as the world counts cleverness, than is indispensable to the clerical profession; but I am not vain enough to suppose that I possess the stupendous intellects of such men; and I think I cannot better employ the little tallent I do possess than in preaching the way of salvation to my fellow sinners.'

'You may be right, Sinclair, as you usually are, but I confess I fail to see the necessity of your burying yourself in a curacy, when there are so many as well adapted for the surplice as you are, and so few, as well fitted to shine at the bar, or in the senate.'

'Well, Darrell, we will have a further conversation upon this subject another time. Our roads diverge here. I turn aside to Elmsdale, and I suppose you ride on into York.'

'Yes; I want to get home as soon as possible. My father's health is very precarious; and I fear from my sister Ada's last letter, he is not long for this vale of tears—as you persons call it.'

'I trust your forebodings of evil lack foundation Darrell. You will come and spend a week with us if possible? We have splendid shooting at Elmsdale,' said Sinclair, as he turned his horse's head to a narrow path that left the high road.

'If I possibly can. But can't you take a ride out?' asked Darrell, reining up.

'I have to go to York to-morrow to buy a horse, as old Marlborough is broken down; and I will call on you; but I shall not be able to spare more than a couple of hours, as I am reading hard,' answered Sinclair.

'Don't read too hard, my friend! With all your preaching predilection, you seem to think enough of the things of this world to strive hard for the highest honors Alma Mater has to bestow.'

'Well, its cold sitting here; so, till next we meet, adieu,' returned Sinclair, laughing.

'Au revoir!' exclaimed Darrell; and, putting spurs to his fiery, blood horse, was soon out of sight.

Sinclair loosened his rein, and old Marlborough, needing no urging, was soon trotting briskly, despite his being broken down.

In Elmsdale House, on this same winter's night, the bright, scarlet curtains were drawn closely over the windows to keep out the hard, freezing air, and upon the hearth a huge fire of logs was roaring and crackling merrily, and shedding a warm, ruddy light around the room. The candles were not vet lighted, although it was nearly nine o'clock. Little did the family circle, sitting round the fire in this cosy room, know of the biting frost, or the keen cutting wind without; except, indeed, by the latter's ceaseless moaning and whistling, as it strove pertinaciously to enter through the crevices and keyholes.

The party round the fire was not a large one. Mr. Sinclair, a retired physician, sat in an armchair on one side of the fireplace. He was a white-haired, benevolent-looking, old gentleman, whose genial kindness, almost as much as his skill, had made him a universal favourite with his patients. Opposite to him sat his wife—her husband's equal in every good and genial quality of heart. She was busily engaged by the flickering light of the fire in knitting a pair of woollen socks for "the boy," as she fondly called her only son. Percy had never worn a pair that she had not made, and never should while she had willing fingers, and a heart overflowing with maternal love. Before the fire sat the young lady of about eighteen summers. There is no need to speak of her gentleness and kindness of disposition. That was proved by the loving way the little people crowded around her; and the beauty of her character was reflected vividly upon her sweet and delicate features. Leaning upon the back of her chair, stood Florence, a bright little damsel of fourteen; and Maud, the pet and plaything of all, lay cosily nestled upon her lap; while Alice knelt at her feet.

'O, cousin Anne, do tell us a tale!' asked Alice, fixing her large blue eyes upon the young lady's face.

'O yes, yes, do!' exclaimed Florence, delightedly.

'Tell Maudie petty tale; do, tousin Anne.'

Cousin Anne answered the little pet by imprinting a kiss upon its fat, dimpled cheeks, and the affectionate little creature twined its tiny arms about her neck, and hid its laughing face among her flowing tresses.

It was a picture of calm, domestic happiness—that scene around the bright December fire—one could never grow tired of gazing upon; one that would tempt any bachelor to cast away the miserable misnomer, called 'single blessedness,' and embark upon the sea of matrimony.

'Well, Maudie dear, what shall it be?' asked the sweetest voice (save one) that I ever heard.

'O, puth in booths, tousin Anne!' cried the little thing, delighted at the idea of being allowed the honour of choosing.

'O, no, Maudie,' said Alice. 'We've heard that so often! Tell us a new one, cousin.'

'A new one, dear?' asked the young lady, smiling.

'Ess, tousin Anne, about 'Hey diddle diddle.''

The novelty of 'Hey diddle diddle' set the children laughing; and after their merriment had subsided, and they had wiped away the tears that trickled down their young cheeks, cousin Anne commenced the promised tale, in the orthodox fashion of—

'Once upon a time, a very long while age, there lived in a large forest an old deer and her two young fawns. Little deers are called fawns, you know.'

'Ittle dears like Allie and me, tousin Anne?' interrupted brighteyes, looking up.

'No, birdie. Little deer with four legs.'

'Like little lambs, aren't they?' asked Alice.

'Yes, dear. Well, the old doe and her two fawns lived in this beautiful forest. There were such large oak trees, with wide-spreading branches, and on the ground there were such soft, green grass and lovely flowers, all growing wild. Little violets, and bluebells, and yellow primroses and cowslips; and there were dear little white daisies, and large red poppies, and lots more, too many for me to tell, it would take so long.'

'All night, eh, tousin Anne?' asked bright eyes, again.

'Yes, darling—to tell you all of them.'

'O, don't tell all, tousin Annie. Maudie want to seep by-bye.'

'Don't talk, Maudie dear; you interrupt,' said Alice, gently stroking her baby sister's silky hair.

'And there was a clear, pebbly brook winding its way between the green, flowery banks. The brook used to sing all day and all night to the little fawns; and the dear little birds used to sing to—oh, so sweetly. There were thrushes, and blackbirds, and larks, and pretty little goldfinches.'

'And 'ittle dicky-birdies too, tousin Anne?'

'Yes, pet. And the busy bees used to hum so merrily; while they were gathering their honey; and the bright yellow butterflies used to fly about among the long grass in the warm sunshine. Sometime the little fawns would chase them; and then they would fly a little way to a pretty flower, and stand tiptoe on it, till the fawns would nearly catch them, and then away they would fly again!'

'Oh, what fun,' exclaimed Alice, clapping her hands excitedly.

'The little fawns like to live in this beautiful forest, where the grass was so green and soft; and they thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. But one day the mother deer saw a large, fierce wolf prowling about, and she was frightened that he wanted to kill her two dear little fawns; and so, while the little things would be scampering about, she would stand upon a big rock and watch for the wolf.'

'But, cousin, why would the wicked wolf want to kill the harmless little fawns!' asked Alice.

'To eat them, Alice,' replied Cousin Anne.

'Maudie, eat wolf!' exclaimed birdie, sitting up—her eyes glowing with sympathy for the poor fawns.

'Oh, don't talk, Maudie!' exclaimed Florence, impatiently. 'You keep interrupting.'

'Speak gently to little sister, Flo.,' said her mother, looking up from her knitting.

As answer, Flo. stooped over the talkative little puss, and, kissing her, whispered, 'Don't talk any more, that's a dear.'

'One day,' continued cousin Annie, 'when she was watching, she saw the wolf stealing along, and it came up close to the little fawns; but they didn't see it. Then the mother called them to run to her as fast as they could; but they wouldn't, and pretended they did hear.'

'What naughty 'ittle tings!' cried the irrepressible Maudie.

Flo. put her finger on birdie's lips reprovingly, 'Oh, don't talk any more, Maudie!'

'Then the mother deer——'

'O, if here isn't Percy!' cried Florence, rushing into her brother's arms, as he stood in the entrance of the half-open door.