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.