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——”

I started.

“Nay, start not,” continued my uncle, “my assertion is fact; for were it even possible she was her own child, so strong a resemblance could scarcely exist; I surely, then, need not repeat what sort of woman she was whom I so fervently adored, for you have already her portrait subjoined to every quality the human heart was capable of possessing; we met by accident at an assembly, and one hour’s pleasure rendered us reciprocally dear to each other. But, alas! the disparity of fortunes precluded all hopes of our union, till time or circumstances should ameliorate the rigid temper of her father; for she was an only child, most duteous and obedient to his stern command; thus situated, our only resource of correspondence or intercourse rested entirely on the basis of juvenile duplicity, as occasion presented itself; but both young and unpractised in the wiles of dissimulation, our bosoms were the mansions of love, honour, and fidelity.”