Every Sunday afternoon, the rector of a neighbouring though still
somewhat distant parish, of which the rich living was in the gift of
the Herberts, came to perform divine service at Cherbury. It was a
subject of deep regret to Lady Annabel that herself and her family
were debarred from the advantage of more frequent and convenient
spiritual consolation; but, at this time, the parochial discipline
of the Church of England was not so strict as it fortunately is at
present. Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither parish church,
nor a residence for the clergyman; nor was there indeed a village. The
peasants on the estate, or labourers as they are now styled, a term
whose introduction into our rural world is much to be lamented, lived
in the respective farmhouses on the lands which they cultivated. These
were scattered about at considerable distances, and many of their
inmates found it more convenient to attend the church of the
contiguous parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where the
household and the dwellers in the few cottages scattered about the
park and woods always assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it had
been in life to find her best consolation in religion, and who was
influenced by not only a sincere but even a severe piety, had no other
alternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain; but this, after much
consideration, she had resolved not to do. She was indeed her own
chaplain, herself performing each day such parts of our morning and
evening service whose celebration becomes a laic, and reading portions
from the writings of those eminent divines who, from the Restoration
to the conclusion of the last reign, have so eminently distinguished
the communion of our national Church.
Each Sunday, after the performance of divine service, the Rev. Dr.
Masham dined with the family, and he was the only guest at Cherbury
Venetia ever remembered seeing. The Doctor was a regular orthodox
divine of the eighteenth century; with a large cauliflower wig,
shovel-hat, and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top-boots;
learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat courtly; truly pious, but not
enthusiastic; not forgetful of his tithes, but generous and charitable
when they were once paid; never neglecting the sick, yet occasionally
following a fox; a fine scholar, an active magistrate, and a good
shot; dreading the Pope, and hating the Presbyterians.
The Doctor was attached to the Herbert family not merely because they
had given him a good living. He had a great reverence for an old
English race, and turned up his nose at the Walpolian loanmongers.
Lady Annabel, too, so beautiful, so dignified, so amiable, and highly
bred, and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He was not a
little proud, too, that he was the only person in the county who had
the honour of her acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to
regret that he led so secluded a life, and often lamented that nothing
would induce her to show her elegant person on a racecourse, or to
attend an assize ball, an assembly which was then becoming much the
fashion. The little Venetia was a charming child, and the kind-hearted
Doctor, though a bachelor, loved children.
O! matre pulchrâ, filia pulchrior,
was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite quotation after his
weekly visit to Cherbury.
Divine service was concluded; the Doctor had preached a capital
sermon; for he had been one of the shining lights of his university
until his rich but isolating preferment had apparently closed the
great career which it was once supposed awaited him. The accustomed
walk on the terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. This meal
was always celebrated at Cherbury, where new fashions stole down with
a lingering pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was placed
in the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered by a large screen covered
with huge maps of the shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady
Annabel and her good pastor seated themselves at each end of the
table, while Venetia, mounted on a high chair, was waited on by
Mistress Pauncefort, who never condescended by any chance attention to
notice the presence of any other individual but her little charge, on
whose chair she just leaned with an air of condescending devotion.
The butler stood behind his lady, and two other servants watched the
Doctor; rural bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous livery
coats of blue and silver, which had been made originally for men of
very different size and bearing. Simple as was the usual diet at
Cherbury the cook was permitted on Sunday full play to her art, which,
in the eighteenth century, indulged in the production of dishes more
numerous and substantial than our refined tastes could at present
tolerate. The Doctor appreciated a good dinner, and his countenance
glistened with approbation as he surveyed the ample tureen of potage
royal, with a boned duck swimming in its centre. Before him still
scowled in death the grim countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked
on one side by a leg of mutton _à-la-daube_, and on the other by
the tempting delicacies of bombarded veal. To these succeeded that
masterpiece of the culinary art, a grand battalia pie, in which the
bodies of chickens, pigeons, and rabbits were embalmed in spices,
cocks' combs, and savoury balls, and well bedewed with one of those
rich sauces of claret, anchovy, and sweet herbs, in which our
great-grandfathers delighted, and which was technically termed a Lear.
But the grand essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon the
curious cook had contrived to represent all the once-living forms that
were now entombed in that gorgeous sepulchre. A Florentine tourte, or
tansy, an old English custard, a more refined blamango, and a riband
jelly of many colours, offered a pleasant relief after these vaster
inventions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster loaves and a
pompetone of larks.
Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his hostess, the Doctor was
never deterred from doing justice to her hospitality. Few were the
dishes that ever escaped him. The demon dyspepsia had not waved its
fell wings over the eighteenth century, and wonderful were the feats
then achieved by a country gentleman with the united aid of a good
digestion and a good conscience.
The servants had retired, and Dr. Masham had taken his last glass
of port, and then he rang a bell on the table, and, I trust my fair
readers will not be frightened from proceeding with this history, a
servant brought him his pipe. The pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted,
and duly puffed; and then, taking it from his mouth, the Doctor spoke.
'And so, my honoured lady, you have got a neighbour at last.'
'Indeed!' exclaimed Lady Annabel.
But the claims of the pipe prevented the good Doctor from too quickly
satisfying her natural curiosity. Another puff or two, and he then
continued.
'Yes,' said he, 'the old abbey has at last found a tenant.'
'A tenant, Doctor?'
'Ay! the best tenant in the world: its proprietor.'
'You quite surprise me. When did this occur?'
'They have been there these three days; I have paid them a visit. Mrs.
Cadurcis has come to live at the abbey with the little lord.'
'This is indeed news to us,' said Lady Annabel; 'and what kind of
people are they?'
'You know, my dear madam,' said the Doctor, just touching the ash of
his pipe with his tobacco-stopper of chased silver, 'that the present
lord is a very distant relative of the late one?'
Lady Annabel bowed assent.
'The late lord,' continued the Doctor, 'who was as strange and
wrong-headed a man as ever breathed, though I trust he is in the
kingdom of heaven for all that, left all his property to his unlawful
children, with the exception of this estate entailed on the title, as
all estates should be, 'Tis a fine place, but no great rental. I doubt
whether 'tis more than a clear twelve hundred a-year.'
'And Mrs. Cadurcis?' inquired Lady Annabel.
'Was an heiress,' replied the Doctor, 'and the late Mr. Cadurcis a
spendrift. He was a bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Providence
was pleased to summon him suddenly from this mortal scene, but not
before he had dissipated the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs.
Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in strict seclusion with
her little boy, as you may, my dear lady, with your dear little girl.
But I am afraid,' said the Doctor, shaking his head, 'she has not
been in the habit of dining so well as we have to-day. A very
limited income, my dear madam; a very limited income indeed. And
the guardians, I am told, will only allow the little lord a hundred
a-year; but, on her own income, whatever it may be, and that addition,
she has resolved to live at the abbey; and I believe, I believe she
has it rent-free; but I don't know.'
'Poor woman!' said Lady Annabel, and not without a sigh. 'I trust her
child is her consolation.'
Venetia had not spoken during this conversation, but she had listened
to it very attentively. At length she said, 'Mamma, is not a widow a
wife that has lost her husband?'
'You are right, my dear,' said Lady Annabel, rather gravely.
Venetia mused a moment, and then replied, 'Pray, mamma, are you a
widow?'
'My dear little girl,' said Dr. Masham, 'go and give that beautiful
peacock a pretty piece of cake.'
Lady Annabel and the Doctor rose from the table with Venetia, and took
a turn in the park, while the Doctor's horses were getting ready.
'I think, my good lady,' said the Doctor, 'it would be but an act of
Christian charity to call upon Mrs. Cadurcis.'
'I was thinking the same,' said Lady Annabel; 'I am interested by what
you have told me of her history and fortunes. We have some woes in
common; I hope some joys. It seems that this case should indeed be an
exception to my rule.'
'I would not ask you to sacrifice your inclinations to the mere
pleasures of the world,' said the Doctor: 'but duties, my dear lady,
duties; there are such things as duties to our neighbour; and here is
a case where, believe me, they might be fulfilled.'
The Doctor's horses now appeared. Both master and groom wore their
pistols in their holsters. The Doctor shook hands warmly with Lady
Annabel, and patted Venetia on her head, as she ran up from a little
distance, with an eager countenance, to receive her accustomed
blessing. Then mounting his stout mare, he once more waived his hand
with an air of courtliness to his hostess, and was soon out of sight.
Lady Annabel and Venetia returned to the terrace-room.