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All agreed in flattering Buckhurst that he had completely succeeded in giving the colonel the change, and he was particularly complimented on his address by a Mr. Sloak, chaplain to a nobleman, who was one of the company. There was something of a hypocritical tone in Sloak's voice something of a doubtful cast in his eyes, which, for a moment, raised in Buckhurst's mind a suspicion of him.
The remainder of that day, and the whole of the night, were passed in these fluctuations of passion. Whenever he closed his eyes and began to doze, he heard the voice of Colonel Hauton drinking the health of Mr. Sloak; and twice he started from his sleep, after having collared both the rector and his patron.
"It's a good time to wish it, faith!" said the colonel; "but you should have thought better before you put on the cloth." Cursing himself, his patron, and his father, Buckhurst struck his forehead, and rushed out of the room: an insulting laugh followed from Colonel Hauton, in which Mr. Sloak and all the company joined Buckhurst heard it with feelings of powerless desperation.
The laugh was instantly turned against Buckhurst. Starting from table, he looked alternately at Colonel Hauton and at Mr. Sloak, and could scarcely find words to express his rage. "Hypocrisy! Treachery! Ingratitude! Cowardice! If my cloth did not protect you, you would not dare Oh! that I were not a clergyman!" cried Buckhurst.
The glasses were filled instantly, all but Buckhurst Falconer's, who, of course, thought he should not drink his own health. "Mr. Sloak, I have the pleasure to drink your health; Mr. Sloak, rector of Chipping-Friars," cried the patron, raising his voice. "Buckhurst," added he, with a malicious smile, "you do not fill your glass." Buckhurst sat aghast. "Colonel, is this a jest?"
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