The Rector and The Doctor’s Family

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 percent 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 neither High nor Low, enlightened nor narrow-minded; he was a Fellow of All Souls.

“But now tell me, my dear,” said old Mrs. Proctor, “who’s Mr. Wodehouse?”

With despairing calmness, the Rector approached his voice to her ear. “He’s a churchwarden!” cried the unfortunate man, in a shrill whisper.

“He’s what?⁠—you forget I don’t hear very well. I’m a great deal deafer, Morley, my dear, than I was the last time you were in Devonshire. What did you say Mr. Wodehouse was?”

“He’s an ass!” exclaimed the baited Rector.

Mrs. Proctor nodded her head with a great many little satisfied assenting nods.

“Exactly my own opinion, my dear. What I like in your manner of expressing yourself, Morley, is its conciseness,” said the laughing old lady. “Just so⁠—exactly what I imagined; but being an ass, you know, doesn’t account for him coming here so often. What is he besides, my dear?”

The Rector made spasmodic gestures towards the door, to the great amusement of his lively mother; and then produced, with much confusion and after a long search, his pocketbook, on a leaf of paper in which he wrote⁠—loudly, in big characters⁠—“He’s a churchwarden⁠—they’ll hear in the kitchen.”

“He’s a churchwarden! And what if they do hear in the kitchen?” cried the old lady, greatly amused; “it isn’t a sin. Well, now, let me hear: has he a family, Morley?”

As the poor doctor gloomily approached the door of the room in which he had spent last evening, he heard a little rustle and commotion not quite consistent with his expectations⁠—a hum of voices and soft stir such as youthful womankind only makes. Then a voice entirely strange to him uttered an exclamation. Involuntarily he started and changed his aspect. He did not know the voice, but it was young, sweet, peculiar. The cloud lightened a little upon the doctor’s face. Notwithstanding Bessie Christian, he was still young enough to feel a little flutter of curiosity when he heard such a voice sounding out of his room. Hark! what did she say? It was a profoundly prosaic speech.

“What an intolerable smell of smoke! I shouldn’t wonder a bit⁠—indeed, I rather think he must be, or he wouldn’t live in a place like this⁠—if he were exactly such another as Fred.”

“Poor Fred!” said a plaintive voice, “if we only can learn where he is. Hush, there is a footstep! Ah, it is not my poor fellow’s footstep! Nettie, hark!”

“No, indeed! twenty thousand times sharper, and more like a man,” said the other, in hurried breathless accents. “Hark! here he is.”

“Take me down this long pretty road. There must be delicious houses inside the walls. Look here; drive slowly, and let us have a peep in at this open door,” said Nettie. “How sweet and cosy! and who is that pretty young lady coming out? I saw her in the chapel this morning. Oh,” added Nettie, with a little sharpness, “she knows you⁠—tell me who she is.”

“That is Miss Lucy Wodehouse⁠—one of our Carlingford beauties,” said Dr. Rider.

“Do you know her very well?” asked the inquisitive Nettie. “How she stares⁠—why does she stare, do you suppose? Is there anything absurd about my dress? Look here⁠—don’t they wear bonnets just like this in England?”

“So far as I am able to judge,” said the doctor, looking at the tiny head overladen with hair, from which the bonnet had fallen half off.

“I suppose she is surprised to see me here. Drive on faster, Dr. Edward, I want to talk to you. I see Fred has been telling us a parcel of stories. It would be cruel to tell Susan, you know, for she believes in him; but you may quite trust me. Is your brother good for anything, Dr. Edward, do you suppose?”

“Not very much now, I fear,” said the doctor.

“Not very much now. I suppose he never was good for much,” said the indignant Nettie; “but he was said to be very clever when he first came out to the colony.