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Chronicles of Carlingford
THE RECTOR
BY
MRS OLIPHANT
NEW EDITION
_WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS_
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD
THE RECTOR
CHAPTER I.
It is natural to suppose that the arrival of the new Rector was a rather
exciting event for Carlingford. It is a considerable town, it is true,
nowadays, but then there are no alien activities to disturb the place--no
manufactures, and not much trade. And there is a very respectable amount
of very good society at Carlingford. To begin with, it is a pretty
place--mild, sheltered, not far from town; and naturally its very
reputation for good society increases the amount of that much-prized
article. The advantages of the town in this respect have already put
five per cent upon the house-rents; but this, of course, only refers
to the _real_ town, where you can go through an entire street of high
garden-walls, with houses inside full of the retired exclusive comforts,
the dainty economical refinement peculiar to such places; and where the
good people consider their own society as a warrant of gentility less
splendid, but not less assured, than the favour of Majesty itself.
Naturally there are no Dissenters in Carlingford--that is to say, none
above the rank of a greengrocer or milkman; and in bosoms devoted to
the Church it may be well imagined that the advent of the new Rector was
an event full of importance, and even of excitement.
He was highly spoken of, everybody knew; but nobody knew who had spoken
highly of him, nor had been able to find out, even by inference, what
were his views. The Church had been Low during the last Rector's
reign--profoundly Low--lost in the deepest abysses of Evangelicalism. A
determined inclination to preach to everybody had seized upon that good
man's brain; he had half emptied Salem Chapel, there could be no doubt;
but, on the other hand, he had more than half filled the Chapel of St
Roque, half a mile out of Carlingford, where the perpetual curate, young,
handsome, and fervid, was on the very topmost pinnacle of Anglicanism.
St Roque's was not more than a pleasant walk from the best quarter of
Carlingford, on the north side of the town, thank heaven! which one
could get at without the dread passage of that new horrid suburb, to
which young Mr Rider, the young doctor, was devoting himself. But the
Evangelical rector was dead, and his reign was over, and nobody could
predict what the character of the new administration was to be. The
obscurity in which the new Rector had buried his views was the most
extraordinary thing about him. He had taken high honours at college,
and was "highly spoken of;" but whether he was High, or Low, or Broad,
muscular or sentimental, sermonising or decorative, nobody in the world
seemed able to tell.
"Fancy if he were just to be a Mr Bury over again! Fancy him going to
the canal, and having sermons to the bargemen, and attending to all
sorts of people except to us, whom it is his duty to attend to!" cried
one of this much-canvassed clergyman's curious parishioners. "Indeed I
do believe he must be one of these people. If he were in society at all,
somebody would be sure to know."
"Lucy dear, Mr Bury christened you," said another not less curious but
more tolerant inquirer.
"Then he did you the greatest of all services," cried the third member
of the little group which discussed the new Rector under Mr Wodehouse's
blossomed apple-trees. "He conferred such a benefit upon you that he
deserves all reverence at your hand. Wonderful idea! a man confers this
greatest of Christian blessings on multitudes, and does not himself
appreciate the boon he conveys!"
"Well, for that matter, Mr Wentworth, you know----" said the elder lady;
but she got no farther. Though she was verging upon forty, leisurely,
pious, and unmarried, that good Miss Wodehouse was not polemical. She
had "her own opinions," but few people knew much about them. She was
seated on a green garden-bench which surrounded the great May-tree in
that large, warm, well-furnished garden. The high brick walls, all
clothed with fruit-trees, shut in an enclosure of which not a morsel
except this velvet grass, with its nests of daisies, was not under the
highest and most careful cultivation. It was such a scene as is only to
be found in an old country town; the walls jealous of intrusion, yet
thrusting tall plumes of lilac and stray branches of apple-blossom, like
friendly salutations to the world without; within, the blossoms drooping
over the light bright head of Lucy Wodehouse underneath the apple-trees,
and impertinently flecking the Rev. Frank Wentworth's Anglican coat.
These two last were young people, with that indefinable harmony in
their looks which prompts the suggestion of "a handsome couple" to the
bystander. It had not even occurred to them to be in love with each
other, so far as anybody knew, yet few were the undiscerning persons who
saw them together without instinctively placing the young curate of St
Roque's in permanence by Lucy's side. She was twenty, pretty, blue-eyed,
and full of dimples, with a broad Leghorn hat thrown carelessly on her
head, untied, with broad strings of blue ribbon falling among her fair
curls--a blue which was "repeated," according to painter jargon, in
ribbons at her throat and waist. She had great gardening gloves on,
and a basket and huge pair of scissors on the grass at her feet, which
grass, besides, was strewed with a profusion of all the sweetest spring
blossoms--the sweet narcissus, most exquisite of flowers, lilies of the
valley, white and blue hyacinths, golden ranunculus globes--worlds of
sober, deep-breathing wallflower. If Lucy had been doing what her kind
elder sister called her "duty," she would have been at this moment
arranging her flowers in the drawing-room; but the times were rare when
Lucy did her duty according to Miss Wodehouse's estimate; so instead of
arranging those clusters of narcissus, she clubbed them together in her
hands into a fragrant dazzling sheaf, and discussed the new Rector--not
unaware, perhaps, in her secret heart, that the sweet morning, the
sunshine and flowers, and exhilarating air, were somehow secretly
enhanced by the presence of that black Anglican figure under the
apple-trees.
"But I suppose," said Lucy, with a sigh, "we must wait till we see him;
and if I must be very respectful of Mr Bury because he christened me, I
am heartily glad the new Rector has no claim upon my reverence. I have
been christened, I have been confirmed----"
"But, Lucy, my dear, the chances are he will marry you," said Miss
Wodehouse, calmly; "indeed, there can be no doubt that it is only
natural he should, for he _is_ the Rector, you know; and though we go
so often to St Roque's, Mr Wentworth will excuse me saying that he is
a very young man."
Miss Wodehouse was knitting; she did not see the sudden look of dismay
and amazement which the curate of St Roque's darted down upon her, nor
the violent sympathetic blush which blazed over both the young faces.
How shocking that elderly quiet people should have such a faculty for
suggestions! You may be sure Lucy Wodehouse and young Wentworth, had it
not been "put into their heads" in such an absurd fashion, would never,
all their virtuous lives, have dreamt of anything but friendship. Deep
silence ensued after this simple but startling speech. Miss Wodehouse
knitted on, and took no notice; Lucy began to gather up the flowers into
the basket, unable for her life to think of anything to say. For his
part, Mr Wentworth gravely picked the apple-blossoms off his coat, and
counted them in his hand. That sweet summer snow kept dropping, dropping,
falling here and there as the wind carried it, and with a special
attraction to Lucy and her blue ribbons; while behind, Miss Wodehouse
sat calmly on the green bench, under the May-tree just beginning to
bloom, without lifting her eyes from her knitting. Not far off, the
bright English house, all beaming with open doors and windows, shone in
the sunshine. With the white May peeping out among the green overhead,
and the sweet narcissus in a great dazzling sheaf upon the grass, making
all the air fragrant around them, can anybody fancy a sweeter domestic
out-of-door scene? or else it seemed so to the perpetual curate of St
Roque's.
Ah me! and if he was to be perpetual curate, and none of his great
friends thought upon him, or had preferment to bestow, how do you
suppose he could ever, ever marry Lucy Wodehouse, if they were to wait
a hundred years?
Just then the garden-gate--the green gate in the wall--opened to the
creaking murmur of Mr Wodehouse's own key. Mr Wodehouse was a man
who creaked universally. His boots were a heavy infliction upon the
good-humour of his household; and like every other invariable quality of
dress, the peculiarity became identified with him in every particular of
his life. Everything belonging to him moved with a certain jar, except,
indeed, his household, which went on noiseless wheels, thanks to Lucy
and love. As he came along the garden path, the gravel started all round
his unmusical foot. Miss Wodehouse alone turned round to hail her father's
approach, but both the young people looked up at her instinctively, and
saw her little start, the falling of her knitting-needles, the little
flutter of colour which surprise brought to her maidenly, middle-aged
cheek. How they both divined it I cannot tell, but it certainly was no
surprise to either of them when a tall embarrassed figure, following
the portly one of Mr Wodehouse, stepped suddenly from the noisy gravel
to the quiet grass, and stood gravely awkward behind the father of the
house.
"My dear children, here's the Rector--delighted to see him! we're all
delighted to see him!" cried Mr Wodehouse. "This is my little girl Lucy,
and this is my eldest daughter. They're both as good as curates, though
I say it, you know, as shouldn't. I suppose you've got something tidy
for lunch, Lucy, eh? To be sure you ought to know--how can I tell? She
might have had only cold mutton, for anything I knew--and that won't do,
you know, after college fare. Hollo, Wentworth! I beg your pardon--who
thought of seeing you here? I thought you had morning service, and all
that sort of thing. Delighted to make you known to the Rector so soon.
Mr Proctor--Mr Wentworth of St Roque's."
The Rector bowed. He had no time to say anything, fortunately for him;
but a vague sort of colour fluttered over his face. It was his first
living; and cloistered in All-Souls for fifteen years of his life, how
is a man to know all at once how to accost his parishioners? especially
when these curious unknown specimens of natural life happen to be female
creatures, doubtless accustomed to compliment and civility. If ever any
one was thankful to hear the sound of another man's voice, that person was
the new Rector of Carlingford, standing in the bewildering garden-scene
into which the green door had so suddenly admitted him, all but treading
on the dazzling bundle of narcissus, and turning with embarrassed
politeness from the perpetual curate, whose salutation was less cordial
than it might have been, to those indefinite flutters of blue ribbon
from which Mr Proctor's tall figure divided the ungracious young man.
"But come along to lunch. Bless me! don't let us be too ceremonious,"
cried Mr Wodehouse. "Take Lucy, my dear sir--take Lucy. Though she has
her garden-gloves on, she's manager indoors for all that. Molly here is
the one we coddle up and take care of. Put down your knitting, child,
and don't make an old woman of yourself. To be sure, it's your own
concern--you should know best; but that's my opinion. Why, Wentworth,
where are you off to? 'Tisn't a fast, surely--is it, Mary?--nothing of
the sort; it's Thursday--_Thursday_, do you hear? and the Rector newly
arrived. Come along."
"I am much obliged, but I have an appointment," began the curate, with
restraint.
"Why didn't you keep it, then, before _we_ came in," cried Mr Wodehouse,
"chatting with a couple of girls like Lucy and Mary? Come along, come
along--an appointment with some old woman or other, who wants to screw
flannels and things out of you--well, I suppose so! I don't know anything
else you could have to say to them. Come along."
"Thank you. I shall hope to wait on the Rector shortly," said young
Wentworth, more and more stiffly; "but at present I am sorry it is not
in my power. Good morning, Miss Wodehouse--good morning; I am happy to
have had the opportunity----" and the voice of the perpetual curate died
off into vague murmurs of politeness as he made his way towards the
green door.
That green door! what a slight, paltry barrier--one plank and no more; but
outside a dusty dry road, nothing to be seen but other high brick walls,
with here and there an apple-tree or a lilac, or the half-developed
flower-turrets of a chestnut looking over--nothing to be seen but a mean
little costermonger's cart, with a hapless donkey, and, down in the
direction of St Roque's, the long road winding, still drier and dustier.
Ah me! was it paradise inside? or was it only a merely mortal lawn dropped
over with apple-blossoms, blue ribbons, and other vanities? Who could
tell? The perpetual curate wended sulky on his way. I fear the old woman
would have made neither flannel nor tea and sugar out of him in that
inhuman frame of mind.
"Dreadful young prig that young Wentworth," said Mr Wodehouse, "but
comes of a great family, you know, and gets greatly taken notice of--to
be sure he does, child. I suppose it's for his family's sake: I can't
see into people's hearts. It may be higher motives, to be sure, and all
that. He's gone off in a huff about something; never mind, luncheon
comes up all the same. Now, let's address ourselves to the business of
life."
For when Mr Wodehouse took knife and fork in hand a singular result
followed. He was silent--at least he talked no longer: the mystery
of carving, of eating, of drinking--all the serious business of the
table--engrossed the good man. He had nothing more to say for the
moment; and then a dread unbroken silence fell upon the little company.
The Rector coloured, faltered, cleared his throat--he had not an idea
how to get into conversation with such unknown entities. He looked hard
at Lucy, with a bold intention of addressing her; but, having the bad
fortune to meet her eye, shrank back, and withdrew the venture. Then the
good man inclined his profile towards Miss Wentworth. His eyes wandered
wildly round the room in search of a suggestion; but, alas! it was a
mere dining-room, very comfortable, but not imaginative. In his dreadful
dilemma he was infinitely relieved by the sound of somebody's voice.
"I trust you will like Carlingford, Mr Proctor," said Miss Wodehouse,
mildly.
"Yes--oh yes; I trust so," answered the confused but grateful man; "that
is, it will depend very much, of course, on the kind of people I find
here."
"Well, we are a little vain. To tell the truth, indeed, we rather pride
ourselves a little on the good society in Carlingford," said his gentle
and charitable interlocutor.
"Ah, yes--ladies?" said the Rector: "hum--that was not what I was
thinking of."
"But, oh, Mr Proctor," cried Lucy, with a sudden access of fun, "you
don't mean to say that you dislike ladies' society, I hope?"
The Rector gave an uneasy half-frightened glance at her. The creature
was dangerous even to a Fellow of All-Souls.
"I may say I know very little about them," said the bewildered
clergyman. As soon as he had said the words he thought they sounded
rude; but how could he help it?--the truth of his speech was
indisputable.
"Come here, and we'll initiate you--come here as often as you can spare
us a little of your time," cried Mr Wodehouse, who had come to a pause
in his operations. "You couldn't have a better chance. They're head
people in Carlingford, though I say it. There's Mary, she's a learned
woman; take you up in a false quantity, sir, a deal sooner than I
should. And Lucy, she's in another line altogether; but there's quantities
of people swear by her. What's the matter, children, eh? I suppose
so--people tell me so. If people tell me so all day long, I'm entitled
to believe it, I presume?"
Lucy answered this by a burst of laughter, not loud but cordial, which
rang sweet and strange upon the Rector's ears. Miss Wodehouse, on the
contrary, looked a little ashamed, blushed a pretty pink old-maidenly
blush, and mildly remonstrated with papa. The whole scene was astonishing
to the stranger. He had been living out of nature so long that he
wondered within himself whether it was common to retain the habits and
words of childhood to such an age as that which good Miss Wodehouse put
no disguise upon, or if sisters with twenty years of difference between
them were usual in ordinary households. He looked at them with looks
which to Miss Wodehouse appeared disapproving, but which in reality
meant only surprise and discomfort. He was exceedingly glad when lunch
was over, and he was at liberty to take his leave. With very different
feelings from those of young Wentworth the Rector crossed the boundary
of that green door. When he saw it closed behind him he drew a long
breath of relief, and looked up and down the dusty road, and through
those lines of garden walls, where the loads of blossom burst over
everywhere, with a sensation of having escaped and got at liberty. After
a momentary pause and gaze round him in enjoyment of that liberty, the
Rector gave a start and went on again rapidly. A dismayed, discomfited,
helpless sensation came over him. These parishioners!--these female
parishioners! From out of another of those green doors had just emerged
a brilliant group of ladies, the rustle of whose dress and murmur of
whose voices he could hear in the genteel half-rural silence. The Rector
bolted: he never slackened pace nor drew breath till he was safe in the
vacant library of the Rectory, among old Mr Bury's book-shelves. It
seemed the only safe place in Carlingford to the languishing
transplanted Fellow of All-Souls.