The Surgeons Daughter | Page 4

I affected to talk in the depreciatory style, which
calls for point-blank contradiction, if your correspondent possess a
grain of civility.
This communication took place on a Monday, and I daily expected
(what I was ashamed to anticipate by volunteering my presence,
however sure of a welcome) an invitation to eat an egg, as was my
friend's favourite phrase, or a card to drink tea with Misses Fairscribe,
or a provocation to breakfast, at least, with my hospitable friend and
benefactor, and to talk over the contents of my enclosure. But the hours
and days passed on from Monday till Saturday, and I had no
acknowledgment whatever that my packet had reached its destination.
"This is very unlike my good friend's punctuality," thought I; and
having again and again vexed James, my male attendant, by a close
examination concerning the time, place, and delivery, I had only to
strain my imagination to conceive reasons for my friend's silence.
Sometimes I thought that his opinion of the work had proved so
unfavourable that he was averse to hurt my feelings by communicating

it--sometimes, that, escaping his hands to whom it was destined, it had
found its way into his writing-chamber, and was become the subject of
criticism to his smart clerks and conceited apprentices. "'Sdeath!"
thought I, "if I were sure of this, I would"--
"And what would you do?" said Reason, after a few moment's
reflection. "You are ambitious of introducing your book into every
writing and reading-chamber in Edinburgh, and yet you take fire at the
thoughts of its being criticised by Mr. Fairscribe's young people? Be a
little consistent--for shame!"
"I will be consistent," said I, doggedly; "but for all that, I will call on
Mr. Fairscribe this evening."
I hastened my dinner, donn'd my great-coat (for the evening threatened
rain,) and went to Mr. Fairscribe's house. The old domestic opened the
door cautiously, and before I asked the question, said, "Mr. Fairscribe
is at home, sir; but it is Sunday night." Recognising, however, my face
and voice, he opened the door wider, admitted me, and conducted me to
the parlour, where I found Mr. Fairscribe and the rest of his family
engaged in listening to a sermon by the late Mr. Walker of Edinburgh,
[Footnote: Robert Walker, the colleague and rival of Dr. Hugh Blair, in
St. Giles's Church Edinburgh] which was read by Miss Catherine with
unusual distinctness, simplicity, and judgment. Welcomed as a friend
of the house, I had nothing for it but to take my seat quietly, and
making a virtue of necessity, endeavour to derive my share of the
benefit arising from an excellent sermon. But I am afraid Mr. Walker's
force of logic and precision of expression were somewhat lost upon me.
I was sensible I had chosen an improper time to disturb Mr. Fairscribe,
and when the discourse was ended, I rose to take my leave, somewhat
hastily, I believe. "A cup of tea, Mr. Croftangry?" said the young lady.
"You will wait and take part of a Presbyterian supper?" said Mr.
Fairscribe.--"Nine o'clock--I make it a point of keeping my father's
hours on Sunday at e'en. Perhaps Dr.----(naming an excellent
clergyman) may look in."
I made my apology for declining his invitation; and I fancy my
unexpected appearance, and hasty retreat, had rather surprised my

friend, since, instead of accompanying me to the door, he conducted me
into his own apartment.
"What is the matter," he said, "Mr. Croftangry? This is not a night for
secular business, but if any thing sudden or extraordinary has
happened"--
"Nothing in the world," said I, forcing myself upon confession, as the
best way of clearing myself out of the scrape,--"only--only I sent you a
little parcel, and as you are so regular in acknowledging letters and
communications, I--I thought it might have miscarried--that's all."
My friend laughed heartily, as if he saw into and enjoyed my motives
and my confusion. "Safe?--it came safe enough," he said. "The wind of
the world always blows its vanities into haven. But this is the end of the
session, when I have little time to read any thing printed except
Inner-House papers; yet if you will take your kail with us next Saturday,
I will glance over your work, though I am sure I am no competent
judge of such matters."
With this promise I was fain to take my leave, not without half
persuading myself that if once the phlegmatic lawyer began my
lucubrations, he would not be able to rise from them till he had finished
the perusal, nor to endure an interval betwixt his reading the last page,
and requesting an interview with the author.
No such marks of impatience displayed themselves. Time, blunt or
keen, as my friend Joanna says, swift or leisurely, held his