Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/31

20 it was morning dew, flavoured with sugar and lemon.

My duel with Larpent was postponed sine die by tacit consent. The next day, being Wednesday, after dinner Blobbins took me aside, and murmured mysteriously in my ear, “Early purl.”

I understood him, and, as soon as we were out of school, we started off towards the “Marquis of Granby,” a large posting-inn, facing the Hay market. As we passed the Original Bun House we observed with sorrow that Crump’s homely name had been painted out, and the Italian patronymic of Tolibozzi had usurped its place, while for indigenous “Pastry-cook ” was substituted exotic “Confectioner.” Tolibozzi was a tall and superior looking man, with very black eyebrows, a ﬂat linen cap, and a white apron. It appeared that Tolibozzi had been cook in a nobleman’s family, and had condescendingly married the lady’s-maid. Mrs. Tolibozzi, however, was a very genteel young person, and were as many rings as her late mistress, with a gold watch and chain. We bought a couple of buns, just out of curiosity; but, O! Tolibozzi’s buns were no more to be compared with Crump’s solemn than chalk and alum with sugar and eggs: they were, indeed, a bitter mockery.

Neither Blobbins nor I had ever entered a tavern; and before we reached the “Marquis” a feeling of nervousness came over us. We tossed for posteriority, and Blobbins lost. Girding up his loins, he dashed across the road, and I followed; but before he went in, he looked through the plate-glass window, and turning round, informed me with dismay that she wasn’t there!

It was perfectly true. She was not there; and on inquiring of Tolibozzi, we ascertained that Miss Pluckrose had never accepted any situation there, but contemplated devoting herself exclusively to dress-making and millinery. In answer to our modest application, where she was residing, Tolibozzi believed she was staying with her aunt, either in James Street or John Street, but the number he had forgotten, and Mrs. Tolibozzi had never heard.

Baffled in every effort to discover our Amelia, Blobbins, by way of balm, suggested that we should have a row. Adopting his advice, we made our way down to the ferry-house, and hiring a crank skid', Blobbins took the rudder, and I the sculls. We were proceeding up the river very gloomily, when all at once Blobbins turned pale, and exclaimed, “Here she comes!”

“Who?” said I.

“Amelia!”

And scarcely had he spoken, when a wherry passed us on our larboard quarter, in which, with a blue silk bonnet and a parasol, sat Amelia, guiding the tiller-ropes, while a smart, yellow haired young fellow, whose navy cap she held in her lap, was pulling vigorously with his jacket off. They had not passed us more than twenty yards, when one four-oared cutter which was racing against another, suddenly ran foul of Amelia’s boat—I very much fear, through that young person’s bad steering—and upset it. The naval officer and his charge were both immersed in the water, and the ﬁrst glance we caught of them among the boats that were crowding round, showed us Amelia, supported by the strong arm of her gallant protector, who was coolly swimming with her to the bank, where, strange to say, Larpent arrived just too late to render any assistance. The naval oﬂicer, having kissed his precious burthen to restore her to consciousness (which it did), they hurried, dripping wet as they were, into a Swiss cottage, whose hospitable doors were opened for their reception, and whose windows were hidden by willow trees.

For some time after this event Larpent never mentioned Amelia’s name to any human being. It was just upon the eve of Midsummer, so we lost sight of him; but on my return to College House Larpent, who had never left it, was as close and mysterious as before. He had apparently made up his mind that Amelia was lost to him, and so had we all; nor were we greatly surprised, on the first Sunday after our return, to hear the banns of marriage published at church between Walter Henry Seaward, bachelor, and Amelia Pluckrose, spinster, both of this parish. We did feel, however, some astonishment when, just after that publication, the officiating clergyman left the reading-desk and advanced to the communion-table, at the same time that ﬁve persons emerged from the vestry, two being in bridal attire. These were Walter Henry Seaward, bachelor, and Amelia Pluckrose, spinster; the others were old Crump and his wife, and his sister, a thin woman, with a coal-scuttle bonnet and a baggy umbrella.

Poor Larpent! he looked on at the ceremony with an Othello-like glare. Twice he stood up— we were in the gallery—and remained standing for some minutes, notwithstanding Wapshaw desired him to sit down. It seemed cruel for Amelia to be invested with the grand order of matrimony in the presence of so many of her slaves, but I believe she was not morally responsible, having only complied with the earnest entreaty of certain impulsive young ladies in the Cathedral Close, who had formed themselves into a committee of admiration, and who had arranged this public performance of connubial rites as a ﬁtting recognition by Amelia of the gallantry of her preserver.

On leaving College House, which he did at the next “half,” Larpent went out to South America, where he became an indigo-planter; and I heard that eventually he married a very plump and opulent widow, whose complexion was several shades more sombre than his own.

Old Crump was comfortably provided for by being appointed verger to the cathedral, where he toddled about for many years with a black gown and a steel poker.

The Original Bun House exists no more. Railway trains stop at the elegant refreshment-rooms which occupy the ground whereon it stood. These elegant rooms I went into last autumn. Another Amelia was there—how like, and yet how different! As charming, perhaps, in some eyes, but not to my experienced vision. My spectacles might have been dim. She seemed to want repose. These modern cafés have their attractions; but, as any school-boy will tell you. after all there is nothing half so sweet in life as the Original Bun House.

A. A.