CHAPTER XX.

_Mr. Fenwick's Proceedings._

I have his Face before me this Minute! My _Mother_ was wont to say, "Mr. _Fenwick_ had smiling Eyes," but I protest I found they could cut me to the Heart. I ran up-Stairs as soon as ever he was gone, and had a good Cry by my own Bed-side; and wondered what on Earth could have made me so knaggy and upsettish.

When I went down, _Prue_ was still in the Shop; and seeing me with red Eyes, I dare say she thought I had been crying about Dr. _Elwes_. I hadn't, however! There were Customers buying Buns, so I left her to attend to them, and returned to the Parlour; and there, who should there be, sitting at the Window and smelling to some Primroses, but Mr. _Fenwick_! I declare I started as if it had been his Ghost.

"Well," says he smiling, "I've soon come back again.... Why, _Patty_!--I do believe you've been shedding Tears!"

"What of that, Sir?" said I, ready to begin again.

"Only this," said he, "that I am very glad of it, because it seems as if you were sorry for the little _Tiff_ we had just now--And I'm sorry too, and came back expressly to say so. But perhaps I'm mistaken, and these Tears were not about the Tiff, but about Dr. _Elwes_ ... hey, _Patty_?"

I shook my Head.

"Well then, all's right," said he, taking my Hand, and drawing me towards the Window. "I'm sure I regret the old Gentleman as much as any one can be expected to do who cared very little about him; but the Fact is, I was selfishly preoccupied with a Piece of good Fortune that had happened to myself, and which, you see, I could not be easy till I had made you a Party to. How is it I care about telling you, _Patty_? How is it you were the first Person whose Sympathy I wanted to secure? hey?"

"I'm sure I can't tell, Sir."

"Well, I think I _can_ tell--If I can't, I've made a tremendous Blunder, after a great Deal of Self-Examination. What do you think of my having been presented to the Living of St. _Margery-under-the-Wall_?"

"You don't say so?" exclaimed I, clasping my Hands with delight--"Oh, that _is_ joyful!"

"Four Hundred a Year, clear," said he, "that's a good Income, is not it?"

"It's _Wealth_!" said I. "And no more than you deserve, Mr. _Fenwick_!"

"I knew this was how you would feel," said he, kissing my Hand. "What makes you cloud over, _Patty_?"

"I was only thinking, Sir--"

"What? Come, say it out...."

"That this would remove you from us farther than ever--"

"Oh no! A Quarter of a Mile nearer!"

"I don't mean _that_ Sort of Distance, Sir. But no Matter--I rejoice in it with all my Heart, Mr. _Fenwick_!"

He looked at me earnestly, was going to say Something, and stopped.

"Don't you think," said he, after a Minute's Silence, "that I might marry on this?"

"Surely, Sir!"

"And could you, _Patty_, whom I know so thoroughly and love so heartily, consent to be the Wife of a City Parson?"

--Oh! there could be only one Moment in Life like that!--And yet, have not I had many happy Moments, Hours, and Years since? I can't, to this Day, make out how he ever came to think of me; when there were _Prue_, and _Gatty_, and doubtless many young Gentlewomen of his Congregation, to say Nothing of remote Country Cousins, (for he had no near Relations,) to whom I could be but a mere Foil! I could not make it out then, and I can't make it out now; but I am quite content to leave the Mystery unsolved, and decide that Affection settles all Distinctions, and Marriages are made in Heaven. I must say I was very thankful to dear, good Dr. _Elwes_, when his Will came to be opened, (which had been made some Months before his sudden Death,) to find he had left _Prue_ and me Five Hundred Pounds each, in the handsomest Manner, with more Terms of Praise of our "laudable Conduct in difficult Circumstances," than I need to repeat. I say, I was glad of this Legacy, and of the handsome Way in which it was left, because it seemed to make me a little less unworthy of Mr. _Fenwick's_ Regard; not that it had a Bit of Influence with him, however, his Offer having been made and accepted before the Will was opened: so that Nothing could be more disinterested than his Behaviour from first to last.

And the Presentation to this Living came through the Recommendation of Mr. _Caryl_!--accompanied by a very flattering Letter, saying it was a Piece of Justice, and that he knew of no Man on whom his Uncle could have better bestowed it. A Piece of _Justice_, I privately consider it; and a Salve to his own Conscience for pitifully burning the Poem of a Man that writ better than himself. Nothing can destroy that Conviction. But I keep it quite secret; the only Secret I have ever kept or will keep from my Husband, and this only because I would not lower his Patron's Nephew in his Estimation.

Certainly the Gift of a good Living was far more than an Equivalent for the best Poem that ever was writ; but yet, Poets have naturally such an overweening Opinion of the Importance of their Productions to the World, and of their own Mission as Regenerators of Society, that to them it is an exceeding hard Thing to lose the Fame and Influence they believe they deserve; and I question whether those of 'em that take the highest Flights (from practical Affairs and common Sense, that is,) would consider themselves at all compensated for the Loss of a heavy Poem by the Gain of a fat Living.

But my Husband hath since appeared in Print, in a Way that's highly honourable to himself and gratifying to his Connexions, without being beholden to any Patron whatsoever. He has printed a Funeral Sermon on Mrs. _Eusebia Crate_, a highly estimable Member of his Congregation, which was brought out by Messrs. _A._ and _B. Thompson_, at the Sign of the _Bible and Star, Fleet Street_, handsomely bound in shiny black Leather, with a black Margin to the Title. This Sermon, which was published by Subscription, brought my Husband enough to buy a very handsome Mahogany Bookcase for his Study, and a Pair of Pulpit Sconces, besides its being named in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. And though Money was not my Husband's Object, yet, as the Work, it is thought, may attain to a second Edition, who knows but hereafter he may be as successful as Dr. _Hugh Blair_, who for his last Volume of Sermons received Six Hundred Pounds! Though amazing, it must be true, for they say it in _Pater Noster Row_!

As for dear _Prue_, her Legacy was as acceptable to her as mine to me, for though _Tom_ conscientiously brings her all his Earnings and is now Captain of a fine Merchantman, Sailors are never over-rich; I think her queer Engagement to him steadied her a good Deal: it put an End to the least Approach to Trifling or Flirting, which she might have indulged in, had they been less seriously bound to one another; and my _Mother's_ Contempt for the Contract and "the Bit of red Glass," went so to poor _Prudence's_ Heart as to engender a Degree of Humility and Submissiveness quite contrary to her previous Character. With all this, she was deeply in Love with _Tom_, and silently, seriously happy; nor would she, I am convinced, have been released from her Engagement for the World. But it took away all Desire to be otherways placed than where she was, in the Bosom of her own Family, in the quiet, steady Performance of domestic Duties. So that, when I left Home, it was with the comfortable Conviction, which I have never seen the least Reason to alter, that she would supply my Place to my dear _Father_ and _Mother_, as well as in the Business. Indeed, since my Husband married her to _Tom_, the necessary Absences of the latter from his Wife have rendered it very agreeable to all Parties that _Prue's_ Home should still be in the _Old Chelsea Bun-House_. There's an Opposition House set up now, which has a little injured the old Business; but, happily, none of us are so dependent on it as we once were; and their Buns are accounted heavy, so that the ancient, steady-going Customers still resort to

_The Old Original Chelsea Bun-House._

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Chelsea Bun-House, by Anne Manning