The next morning, as soon as we had finished breakfast, my uncle
proposed a visit to the Rectory, to take a peep at the paragon Doctor
Tonic was so lavish in praise of, and to pass our respective judgment
on his perspicuity.
It was a delightful walk to the Rectory, which stood most romantically
at the end of a beautiful shrubbery, shaded by the light foilage of a
double row of limes; the mansion was a low white building, luxuriantly
encircled by honeysuckles and roses, subjoined to a highly cultivated
vine, whose abundant clusters hung in rich purple fringe against the
Gothic windows, whose octagon panes gave it the appearance of some
venerable structure, while the beautiful surrounding prospect of richly
fertilized and diversified wood and water rendered it a little Elysian.
As we approached, we distinctly perceived the sylph-like form of a
female figure, who, with a basket of roses in one hand, was reclining
on the arm of the venerable pastor, exactly bringing to my remembrance
the _entree_ of Sterne and Maria to Moulines.
Dr. Markwell perceiving our approach, politely advanced to open the
gate and welcomed us in.
“Miss Fitzclarence,” said he, introducing the lady, who gracefully
curtsied, but the obtruding shade of a straw hat totally precluded my
curiosity, and compelled me to pass on the other side and offer my
services to carry the basket--but _such roses_ as struck my view _out_
of the basket, might have dazzled the eye of a basilisk; for in the
countenance of the lovely object who stood by my side, I beheld not
only the beautiful girl described by Dr. Tonic, but the chef-d’ouvre of
nature.
My uncle, who had merely stolen a sidelong glance, preceded us into
the house, whither we immediately followed; but never shall I forget
his expressive countenance as Miss Fitzclarence took her seat on an
opposite chair, his eyes were rivetted on her features, and he seemed
lost in astonishment, till roused by Dr. Markwell’s observing what a
charming proficient Miss Fitzclarence was on the harp.
“Rosa, if you please, my dear Sir,” replied the blooming angel; “by
that familiar title I shall feel myself completely at home.”
“Well, then, my charming, my amiable Rosa,” continued the Rector
(charmed with her affability) “will you treat my friends with the
dulcet sonnet you played this morning?”
Rosa caught up her harp, and, like a second Cecilia, all was silent
rapture; but, when her heavenly voice subjoined, my uncle melted into
tears, exclaiming, “I can’t bear it, sweet young lady: in compassion to
an old man’s feelings, pause one moment.”
The beauteous minstrel ceased, and the Rector, unperceived by my uncle,
gave her a significant wink not to continue the song; whilst I, lost
in amazement at my uncle’s conduct, replaced the harp in silence, and
various topics of conversation ensued; yet still his scrutinizing eye
was fixed on Rosa till the moment of our departure, when pressing her
beautiful hand respectfully to his lip, “young lady,” said he, “this
is a liberty I have not assumed these thirty years--accept it as the
sacred incense due _only_ to yourself.”
“Sir, sir,” said I. “am I unpriviledged to follow your example? surely
your gallantry ought not to eclipse mine, and, with Miss Fitzclarence’s
leave, thus I avail myself.”
One fervent kiss I pressed upon that hand, which, in the purest marble,
chisselled by a Tumerelli, never in symmetry was equalled; ask not,
then, gentle reader, when St. Albans left the Rectory, if he was
_victor_--No! he was the _captive_ of love, indissolubly bound in the
chains of Rosa Fitzclarence.
She escorted us to the gate, over which she reclined till we were out
of sight; but how many times my head mechanically turned to catch a
last glimpse, I won’t say.
“Victor!” cried my uncle, “where is your heart? the moment of trial is
arrived: be candid, be noble, where is your heart?”
“Gone!” exclaimed I, “irrecoverably, for ever; I adore Miss
Fitzclarence; and, if there is perfection in woman, ’tis combined in
her, for I never saw her equal.”
My uncle’s eye glanced fire, and he quickly replied, “But I have seen
her _model_, her most _perfect image_, her every _feature_, and her
_voice_--Oh, Victor, ’twas daggers to my soul.”
“As how, dear Sir?” I asked with much impatience.
“You shall know that to-night; at present I must drop a subject I feel
myself incapable to enlarge upon.”
We now strolled home, arm-in-arm. “You have done for me, Sir,” said I,
“completely.”
“And, indeed, Victor, I’ve done for myself,” replied he, as we ascended
the hall steps, when my uncle retired to his study, as was his constant
custom when his mind was ruffled or oppressed, and I threw my listless
form upon the sofa in all the tortures of love, hope, and despair, and
in this commixed rumination I lay, till roused by Geoffry coming in to
lay the cloth.
“Lack-a-daisey, Sir,” cried the garulous old fellow, “have you and
master called at the Rectory this morning? and did you see Miss
Fitzclarence? of all God’s creatures she’s the _beautifulest_. I’ve
seen a many fine girls in my days, but nobody never see nothing like
she I’ll swear; I happened this morning to go up with a drop of cream,
one of their _keows_ being dry, and who should I pop upon but an angel,
as I thought, for I declare I stood _putrified_ and _stagnated_ at her
uncommon beauty: I dare say she’s got a _thousand sweethearts_.”
Had Geoffry stuck the carving knife he was so dexterously handling into
the centre of my heart, I could not have leaped more precipitately from
my recumbent posture.
“Laws, Sir, how you made I jump,” exclaimed he; “I hope you beant
affronted at my boldness in axing you such a question?”
“Not at all, good fellow,” said I, recovering myself from that
lacerating word _sweetheart_.
“But don’t you think her handsome, Sir?” enquired Geoffry.
“Yes, very handsome,” replied I cautiously.
“She _clipses_ all the ladies in the _willage_, however,” said Geoffry,
“and if I was a rich handsome young gentleman, I know I should go mad
after her.”
At this moment my uncle opened the door, and his presence always being
the signal of taciturnity to Geoffry, he withdrew to serve up dinner;
doing which, little passed on either side; and, when the wine was
placed on the table by the side of a plate of beautiful peaches, my
uncle, examining them severally, declared there was not one with the
cheek of a Rosa; he then drew his chair close to mine, and, laying his
hand on my arm, to enforce attention, thus addressed me:--
“Victor, my dear, boy, I am in few words going to explain the mystery
of my conduct this morning at the Rectory, which was to you, of course,
enigmatical; but the moment my eye fixed on Rosa Fitzclarence, I beheld
the _polygraph_ of Cecilia Delmond----”