As soon as our desert was placed on table, Dr. Tonic, the formidable,
rang at the gate: and, as usual, stalked into the room.
“Fine day! hem--hem--how dy’e do?” and down he sat, wiping his bronze
countenance.
“Its excessive hot,” continued he; “I called to look at your
barometer--mine’s up to ninety-two--how stands yours, eh, squire, eh?”
“It hangs in the corner, I have not consulted it to-day, I have had
better amusement,” replied my uncle; “what think you of our sermon this
morning?”
“Oh, very fair! very fair!--_long enough_, in all conscience.”
“But not _so long_ as your _consience_, Mr. Doctor,” said my uncle, “it
was one of Miss Fitzclarence’s I understand.”
“Hey! what! hem, hem--one of Miss Fitzclarence’s _making_, did you
say?” asked the Doctor, eagerly.
“No,” replied my uncle, in the key F sharp, “I did not say any such
thing: I said it was one of _her sermons_--but it does not follow that
she _composed_ it; why, you’re mad: I only meant to observe, it was one
of her choosing, and a finer or more sublime discourse, to the heart, I
never heard: I won’t pretend to say how you might _feel_ it.”
“Well, I hope he won’t tip us such a long one next Sunday: for I can
assure you my beef was boiled to rags in consequence of it.”
“Then I hope _as_ you fasted you prayed,” said my uncle.
“I did,” replied the doctor, “for the _end_ of the sermon, but it did
not avail.”
“I don’t wonder at that,” said my uncle, “you know the _adage_ without
explanation, I’m sure.”
“How demure our new visitor sat, and how _loud_ she sung,” continued
the doctor; “did you see Mrs. Deposit laughing behind her? for, egad,
she’s kicked the skin off my wife’s shin, she was so diverted with the
little girl’s piety.”
“Poor _idiot_!” exclaimed my uncle taking a pinch of snuff, “unhappy
lunatic!”
“Idiot! lunatic!” repeated Dr. Tonic with astonishment, “who dy’e mean?
what dy’e mean? how dy’e mean?”
“I mean,” answered my uncle fiercely, “that Mrs. Deposit is an _idiot_
to ridicule the pious deportment of the exemplary Miss Fitzclarence;
and a _lunatic_ to expose her impious folly by laughing in a church:
I’ll tell you what, Doctor, if you don’t blister her distemper, I shall
turn physician _extraordinary_, _without fee_, and apply one myself the
first time I see occasion.”
“Hah! hah! hah!” chuckled the Doctor, “will you accept of a pot of my
Spanish flies?”
“No, thank you, I am already provided,” answered my uncle, looking very
grave, “you may have occasion for all your stock to counteract the
epidemic fever that reigns so contagious in the village.”
“Fever! fever! what fever? I’ve heard of none,” cried the Doctor.
“Poh!” cried my uncle, “how you attend to business: if you send your
son Bob to feel Mrs. Deposit and Mrs. Fungus’s pulse, he’ll find
them scorching alive with the _fever_ of _envy_--they’ll be good
customers for your saline mixtures. Then there’s Mrs. Coniac, and Mrs.
Henpeck, they must have _extra draughts_: likewise Mrs. Windfall, Mrs.
Wau-Wau, Lady Flam, Widow Quiz, and Mrs. Dashwell, must all go on the
_yellow_ sick list--aye, and even your daughters, Miss Wau-Wau, and
Miss Macfriz, will be obliged to swallow pills in consequence of the
infection; for, depend upon it, they’ve all caught the distemper--I
give you joy, you’ll have a long job of it, for it’s a devilish
incurable complaint.--Now, as to Lady Lustre, Mrs. Downright, Mrs.
Prolix, Mrs. Markwell, the Rector, myself, Victor, Alice, Rangewell,
Geoffry, and all the villagers, must have a different remedy, for the
whole squad are affected with an extreme opposite attack, stiled a
sort of _love_ fever, no ways prejudicial to the female sex, but very
curable in most males. Now, Doctor, if you can exert your skill by
curing these _yellow fever_ gentry, you’ll establish your celebrity for
ever.”
The Doctor could only laugh, for he had no words to invalidate the
argument.
“I’ll tell you what,” said my uncle, filling the Doctor a bumper of
bucelis, “if Miss Fitzclarence could but innoculate us all with her
virtues, as you vaccinate the parish, what a new and happy set of
beings we should appear--come, drink her health, “Fitzclarence for
ever!”
“Oh, Lord no,” said the Doctor, “Fitzclarence as long as she pleases,
but not _for ever_--consider she’s a d--d fine girl, she must not die
an old maid.”
“Not for the world,” replied my uncle, “though sometimes there’s little
difference between a woman’s _driving monkies_, or leading apes.”
“You’re satirical, Sir--you’re too severe, upon my soul,” cried the
Doctor.
“England’s motto for that, Doctor,” replied my uncle, “I said no
harm--I aimed no arrow, fly as it might; you grow touchy in your old
age, high mettled chicks have quick pulses, they tell me.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “and old game cocks have _spurs_, I’ll assure
you, that can strike pretty _home_ occasionally; talking of game
cocks, by the bye, puts me in mind of that _old game dorking_ mother
Henpeck--you passed the day there, I heard, yesterday--you was _well
entertained_, no doubt; mice don’t starve in that cupboard, hem!
hem! I’m going up to the Rectory this afternoon, with my daughter
Elizetta, just by way of introduction so as to establish an intimate
footing between her and Miss Fitzclarence, charming clever girl--an
acquaintance worth cultivating--gain something by it, perhaps.”
“Why, you’re sure you can _lose nothing_,” cried my uncle, peevishly,
and much vexed to hear of his intended visit to the Rectory. “I dare
say,” continued he, “Dr. Markwell and the ladies will be out: we were
to have taken tea, and a walk together.”
“What, here! taken tea here?” enquired the Doctor.
“_Here_, or _there_, no matter which,” replied my uncle, “but at all
events it was a reciprocal engagement, which makes me say I think
you’ll not find them at home.”
“Well, we can but go and see,” said the Doctor, nothing dismayed, “if
we don’t find them at home, we shall conclude they are here, and we can
_join_ your walk in the evening, you know.”
“No: I don’t know any such thing,” answered my uncle, “it’s an equal
chance we don’t walk at all; I may not be inclined, perhaps: and they,
I’m sure, will have too much good manners to leave me at home alone.”
“Of course, of course,” rejoined the Doctor, looking very foolish
at not receiving an expected invitation to join the tea party, as he
imagined, and rising precipitately from his chair, “we’ll set off and
try our luck, however,” cried he, “so, good day, gentlemen,” and away
he went.
“Deuce take the man,” exclaimed my uncle, “how he perplexes and
counteracts all my plans: now I won’t go to Markwell’s: I’ll send
Geoffry to say so: all the delightful and edifying converse I
anticipated will be marred by his scandalous babbling larum, and before
breakfast to-morrow the whole village will know what we all _said_,
_did_, and even _thought_, with a correct catalogue of how many pieces
of bread and butter each person eat, and the precise attitude in which
Miss Fitzclarence sipped her tea: therefore, I won’t go, Victor--I
can’t bear it--I shall be out of temper all night.”
“I shall be greatly disappointed, Sir,” said I--“don’t send Geoffry:
let us take a walk up, at all risks.”
“Well! well! have your own way,” replied my uncle, “but as Tonic and
his chit are gone off, full tilt, I shan’t stir this hour to come.”
“Rosa will _expect_ to see us, at all events,” said I in the mildest,
humblest, tone I could assume.
“Most likely,” rejoined my uncle, “and _you_ expect to see Rosa--yes,
yes--I comprehend.”
I now dared not say another word about it, and different topics took
their turn, till the irksome hour had elapsed; and, as I began to
fidget on my chair, and draw my watch, my uncle caught the hint of my
impatience, and calling for his hat and cane, instantly set off for
the Rectory, where we expected to find the Tonics, but to our great
satisfaction Dr. Markwell informed us, they had called and left their
card in the absence of the family; for, as there was no afternoon
service, they had strolled with Rosa to shew her the adjacent prospects
that bounded the village, and make some calls of cottage benevolence,
in the Rector’s usual way; and in one of these visits the Tonics missed
them, and no doubt returned very sullenly home again, keeping an
Argus’s eye on my uncle’s gate, to see the expected tea-visitors, while
we were most happily employed in the romantic seclusion of the Rectory:
my uncle and Dr. Markwell commenting over Macklin’s superb bible, with
which a certain bishop had presented him, and Rosa and I botanizing
till the evening dews compelled us to decline our amusement, and
commence another theme.
As we approached the parlour-window, we distinctly heard the gentlemen
in earnest conversation; and, in order not to interrupt them, we
returned to a little romantic sort of hermitage, on which the
resplendent moon-beams played in full lustre through the acacia boughs,
lightly waving in the evening breeze, as the dulcet nightingale twitted
her sombre lullaby, in cadence broken, or irregularly sinking to repose
within her foilaged nest.
The hour, the scene, the opportunity, was most auspicious; we took a
seat--my arm encircled the waist of Rosa, whose soft blue eyes were
fixed upon the beauteous evening star.
“Behold,” cried she, “yon glorious planet--lovely resplendent gem of
heaven--’tis Venus.”
“Queen of love,” answered I, abruptly, “whose _celestial shadow_ I
_there_ behold, whilst I _here_ clasp the _terrestrial substance_”--and
what effervent rhapsody followed, I shall suppress, and leave to the
reader’s imagination, merely observing, before Rosa Fitzclarence, and
Victor St. Alban, quitted the hermitage, he had sworn eternal love
by the light of the moon, and sacred fidelity, pure as the lustre of
the evening star, the celestial witnesses of his fervent vows scarce
breathed in whisper, e’er the voice of Dr. Markwell broke upon our ear,
and hastening from the seat, the beauteous Rosa, whose trembling hand
rested on my arm, close to her palpitating heart, entered the room,
suffused in blushes, to which I rapturously felt I had given birth, as
the candles beamed full upon her face, where love’s temerity did not
permit him to discern a frown of disapproval.
Dr. Mark well now requested Rosa to favour us with some of the
exquisite airs from the Messiah, which she executed on the piano in
such masterly style, that Handel might have stood entranced with
admiration.
“Rosa makes her piano talk, positively,” said the amiable and charming
Mrs. Markwell.
“Yes, indeed, it speaks to the heart pretty eloquently,” replied my
uncle: “I’ll tell you what, young lady,” continued he, “you have a
great deal to answer for; it is not clear to me, but all the epidemics
in the village will be laid to your charge: you are a very _dangerous_
young lady--you rob us of our hearts”--my uncle paused, leered at me,
and Rosa’s cheek was scarlet with hermitage conviction, as he thus
continued: “Yes, you make us invalidate our understanding, by your
superior knowledge and perfections; you kill all the women with envy,
and you deal daggers among the men;” then, turning jocosely to myself,
and looking earnestly at Dr. Markwell, “guilty, or not guilty, what say
you both? behold the culprit smiling at her crimes.”
“Guilty! guilty!” replied I, emphatically.
“And am I not allowed to make my defence?” asked Rosa, “unconscious as
I am of conviction.”
“Your condemnation is general--your actions speak for themselves,”
cried my uncle, who had fixed himself at her elbow, and was
enthusiastically pressing her hand between his.
“Then I must bow to the decision of my jurors,” continued Rosa, “but
I hope, if I should hereafter be accused of that heinous crime called
vanity, I shall find friends in court to allow every lenity for the
offence, when they reflect on the source from whence it could alone
originate: I have never been used to adulation from my birth, and it’s
a science I cannot inculcate.”
“Pardon me, my child, it’s a baneful weed that does not grow in our
village,” said the Rector, “suffer me, for the first time, to correct
your opinion on that head as erroneous, for I am bold to say, those
friends you now behold are no adulators.”
“No, by heavens,” replied my uncle, “and I trust _time_ and
circumstance will convince Miss Fitzclarence of it.”
“It’s in vain to contend the point,” answered Rosa, extending a lilly
hand to my uncle and the Rector, “thus, thus, accept my grateful thanks
for your good opinion, which I shall hope ever to cherish and deserve
in a still more eminent degree.”
“And won’t you subjoin mine, Miss Fitzclarence?” asked I, extending my
hand.
“Could Mr. St. Alban suppose himself excluded in those sentiments of
gratitude? ah, if he did, he little knew the heart of Rosa.”
At this unguarded moment I seized her hand, I pressed it to my daring
lip, but Rosa gently withdrawing it, awaked my reverie, as did the
reprehension of my uncle, who observed I was a more gallant fellow than
he supposed me to be.
We soon after partook sandwiches, and at the sober hour of ten left
Rosa, and the worthy family, to their private and regular system of
evening prayer.