Mr. Wentbridge’s vicarage, situate in a pleasing district of the West Riding, amounting to about 200l. per annum, in a cheap country, afforded to very moderate wants ample means of supply.—The possessor was besides skilled in farming; and as one part of his vicarage was twenty acres of land, and he rented thirty more, he had an opportunity of employing his agricultural talents to his own emolument, and also by example to the benefit of his neighbours. No lands were better fenced or cultivated, laid out in a more skilful and productive rotation of crops, a more agreeable variety of tillage or pasturage, than the snug fields of the parson of Brotherton. Their situation also enabled the taste of the cultivator to superinduce elegance and beauty on fruitfulness and utility. The house was placed on the south-east slope of a gentle hill, terminating in a small plain that was bounded by a river, which, winding round the farm, appearing to rise out of woods on the right and on the left, seemed to lose itself behind an advanced post of the hill, whilst, seeking the eastern confines of Yorkshire, it hastened to make a part of the conflux of rivers that after their coalition are distinguished by the name of Humber. In this aspect was situated the chief part of the vicar’s arable farm; behind were his offices and lands of steeper ascent, bounded by a wood, which covering all the upper part of the hill, besides beautifully diversifying the scene, sheltered the parsonage from the northern blast. Here Wentbridge on a beautiful pinnacle erected a small summer-house, commanding an extensive, rich, and delightful prospect, which on the south comprehended the environs of Wakefield, Sheffield, Doncaster, and Bawtry, to the confines of Nottinghamshire; on the west, Pontefract, Leeds, Halifax; extended to the east to the borders of Lincolnshire, and to the north from the adjacent Ferrybridge to York Minster; and in its compass included the various picturesque scenes of the finest part of one of the finest counties in England.—The worthy clergyman’s heart expanded with benevolent pleasure, as from his little hut he contemplated the goodly prospect that spread around——
“Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns,
And glittering towers, and gilded streams;”
—As he viewed the scenes of pastoral beauty, agricultural fruitfulness, and manufacturing skill, all combining so powerfully to produce individual pleasure and prosperity, national opulence and grandeur. But the patriotism and philanthropy of Mr. Wentbridge were mingled with other affections, the same in general source, though more specific in object and operation. His domestic sensibilities were extremely strong, and in his relations were afforded energetic incentives to exertion. This clergyman, now about fifty-four years of age, had been half that time incumbent of Brotherton. About the age of thirty he had married the daughter of a neighbouring curate, and thereby rather hurt his worldly interest, as the niece of a right reverend bishop had cast the eyes of affection upon him, and would have brought a living of five hundred a year, intended by his lordship as a dowry to the young lady, who had, with two sisters, not very extraordinary in beauty, hung very heavily upon his hands. The right reverend divine indeed, very contrary to the usual practice of dignitaries in the church, in his disposals of Spiritual preferment, bethought himself of Carnal subjects. In bestowing a cure of souls, he had not altogether neglected the consideration of bodies, nor, in appointing within his diocese ministers for the propagation of christian knowledge, had he overlooked the propagation of christians. In short, the bishop having in his gift a considerable number of livings, and at his disposal a no less considerable number of daughters, nieces, and cousins, had suffered it to be understood by reverend young batchelors, that the expectants of livings might be sure of success if willing to perform all the duties which his providential care had annexed to incumbency; in other words, that whoever desired the blessings of tithe pigs, must with his appointment take a wife by way of a fine. Mr. Wentbridge having been sounded on this subject had demurred; it was said, indeed, that he observed to a friend, that he could have no objections to the provisions which the right reverend bishop had proposed for his bread, but for his meat he liked to choose for himself. The truth is, Miss Sukey Snatchum was not a very delicate morsel.
Wentbridge, as we have said, made a different election, and got no promotion from the bishop. With his wife he lived extremely happy for twenty years, when, having caught a fever from a sick cottager, whom she deemed it her duty to visit, she, to his inexpressible grief, died, leaving two sons and one daughter. The eldest son, now about twenty-three, was brought up to his father’s profession; the second, having been on a visit to a school-fellow at Hull, was so delighted with the shipping, that he caught a fondness for the sea, and was in the India service. The only child that constantly resided with the vicar was his daughter.
Eliza Wentbridge was about nineteen years of age, and though not regularly beautiful had an agreeable, engaging, and expressive countenance, a good height, a comely figure, with a frank, open, and unembarrassed manner, the result of good sense, good dispositions, and a judicious education. Wentbridge had, indeed, spared no pains in himself forming and directing his daughter’s understanding and heart, and his wife had contributed her share both to her mind and manners; and the savings of œconomy and self-denial had not been wanted in super-adding accomplishment to useful acquirement. For several years she had resided chiefly at Doncaster, with a sister of her mother, who, seeking independence by laudable industry and meritorious exertion, devoted her time and talents to the superintendance of a boarding school. She was now returned to her father’s, the favourite companion of his declining years, the partner of his amusements, the minister of his bounties, the attendant of his excursions, and often the associate of his studies. Miss Wentbridge was well acquainted with the best British authors, and a very competent judge of their respective merits. She was particularly fond of history, then beginning to form so brilliant a portion of her country’s literature. She inherited from her father a very high admiration of British efforts in the various departments of ability and exertion. She admired the national heroism; often listened with delight to her father’s descriptions of the ardent struggles for independence, which repelled the operose attempts of bigotry and despotism, under a glorious sovereign of her own sex, though she often wished, that with the great and lofty virtues of that illustrious Princess there had been mixed more of the feminine softness, the mild and gentle charities which might have spared the lovely Mary. Descending to more recent events, she would with pleasure hear the natural though homely recitals of old Maxwell, and enjoy the fire of his eye, when describing the defence of Bergen-op-Zoom, or the capture of Quebec; she was well acquainted with the events of the war just terminated, especially such as displayed heroism, or manifested British character. Such was the young lady to whom Major Hamilton was now introduced. Hamilton himself was a man of a very prepossessing appearance, tall, and graceful; in face, figure, and deportment, at once elegant and manly. He was now twenty-eight years of age, eleven of which had been passed in his Majesty’s service.—At the commencement of the war he had become a lieutenant. Quebec made him a captain, the Havannah a major. Maxwell had, with his usual glee, recited the actions to which he himself had been a witness, and had not been sparing in celebrating his praises, and included the fortitude with which he had borne his late disaster. Mr. Wentbridge had also spoken in terms of praise, esteem, and respect concerning the abilities and sentiments of his new acquaintance, so that Miss Wentbridge had before she saw him received a very favourable impression of the guest whom her father now brought to the parsonage. Though for the present lame, Hamilton was a very fine man, and, though pale for want of exercise, had a countenance extremely impressive and interesting, intelligent, and animated, with fine blue eyes, which failed not to speak what he thought and felt. He was extremely pleased with the acquaintance which he had now made, and did not fail to testify by words and looks the satisfaction which he received.
In a few weeks Hamilton’s disaster was healed, but he continued at Maxwell’s, “apprehensive,” he said, “of the consequences of a long journey.”—The surgeon, indeed, declared to him, that he might now proceed northwards whenever he chose; but though he had shewn the most thorough conviction of the other’s medical skill, had declared his perfect satisfaction with the treatment of his own wound, and had made a handsome pecuniary recompence, still, however, he did not rely so completely on his authority as to commence his travels. Meanwhile he spent the greater part of his time at the vicarage, where his heart became completely captivated, and he, ere it was long, had the satisfaction to find, that Miss Wentbridge was not insensible to his attentions. Having none to control his inclination, he had no motive to disguise his wishes from the venerable clergyman, and frequently, when they were alone, declared in general terms the high respect he had for his daughter, but did not descend to more particular explanations, until he should ascertain the sentiments of the young lady herself. He had not, indeed, any reason to suspect aversion, but he wished to be more accurately certified, that he might not have construed complacency, or at most esteem, into affection.
It was now the latter end of October, and the season being wet, the autumnal rains had swelled brooks into rivers, when our soldier, in his way to the parsonage, perceiving the young lady in a shrubbery by the summer-house before mentioned, hastened to join her, over a long plank which connected the banks of a rivulet, that passed the lower walks of their pleasure-ground, instead of taking a circuit of thirty yards to a regular bridge. The place where he was to cross being a small level at the bottom of a steep hill, formed a kind of pond, supplied by the cascade from the upper ground, and now deepened by the great accumulation of water. The plank being slippery, and Hamilton not having completely recovered the dextrous command of his limb, he tumbled into the pool and entirely disappeared. Mr. Wentbridge, who was in a distant part of the shrubbery, aroused by a single shriek, ran to the spot whence the voice had issued, and found his daughter in a swoon, whence being by his efforts recovered, she awoke only to misery, and called on the name of Hamilton, in the wildest phrenzy of despairing love. The worthy clergyman, who had before suspected the passion of his daughter, was now apprehensive that some dreadful disaster had befallen its object. He had been able to remove Eliza to a mossy bench, and she was still, in terms of the most endearing affection, deploring the beloved youth; when, descending from the summer-house, he presented himself safe and sound, though all dropping with wet. Our Major had been stunned by the sudden plunge, but soon recovering had swam to the bottom of the bank, and waded farther down, where he saw the ascent was more practicable, and, missing the nearest path, had through the labyrinth of a grove found a difficulty in regaining a view of the summer-house, to which the way was entangled by copse and briars, and hence so much time had elapsed before his return. He with rapture heard his Eliza bewailing his fate. When she was so far recovered as to be conscious of his return, first her astonishment, her anxious doubts, and lastly her joy, gave her lover the conviction which he had so eagerly desired to receive. The considerate care of the father hastened him away to the comforts of a fire and dry clothes, before he would suffer him to explain the circumstances of his escape to the young lady, who still appeared to entertain an unsettled belief of the reality.
In an hour Hamilton completely readjusted, and secure from every disagreeable effect of this involuntary cold bath, was alive only to the delightful sensations which its effects had produced.
When he rejoined the fair hostess, in her blushes, in the enchanted and enchanting pleasure of her countenance, he read the confirmation of the sentiments which her despair had betrayed. She no longer attempted to disguise the delight with which she listened to his addresses, and the tenderness which she felt for his virtues and accomplishments. He the following day, with her consent, applied to her father, and his proposals were most favourably and gladly received by the vicar, from personal esteem and not from motives of interest. A country squire, far superior to this gallant officer in fortune, had made proposals to Miss Wentbridge, which the father never approved, and the daughter had ever most positively rejected. Hamilton, also, if he had chosen to sacrifice at the shrine of avarice might at different times have affianced himself to riches, but especially during his recent stay at London, where his charms had made a conquest of the only daughter of an eminent dry-salter, with whom he had danced at a ball, at the Mary-le-bone gardens. But though both parties disregarded interest as the principal ground of matrimonial connection, yet it was resolved not completely to disregard pecuniary convenience.