“But mamma will be so surprised.”
“I’m sure she will wish it, my dear. You see Harry is a young man of that sort—so impetuous I mean, you know, and so eager—and so—you know what I mean—that the sooner he is married the better. You can’t but take it as a compliment, Florence, that he is so eager.”
“Of course I do.”
“And you should reward him. Believe me it will be best that it should not be delayed.” Whether or no Mrs. Clavering had present in her imagination the possibility of any further danger that might result from Lady Ongar, I will not say, but if so, she altogether failed in communicating her idea to Florence.
“Then I must go home at once,” said Florence, driven almost to bewail the terrors of her position.
“You can write home at once and tell your mother. You can tell her all that I say, and I am sure she will agree with me. If you wish it, I will write a line to Mrs. Burton myself.” Florence said that she would wish it. “And we can begin, you know, to get your things ready here. People don’t take so long about all that nowadays as they used to do.” When Mrs. Clavering had turned against her, Florence knew that she had no hope, and surrendered, subject to the approval of the higher authorities at Stratton. The higher authorities at Stratton approved also, of course, and Florence found herself fixed to a day with a suddenness that bewildered her. Immediately—almost as soon as the consent had been extorted from her—she began to be surrounded with incipient preparation for the event, as to which, about three weeks since, she had made up her mind that it would never come to pass.
On the second day of her arrival, in the privacy of her bedroom, Fanny communicated to her the decision of her family in regard to Mr. Saul. But she told the story at first as though this decision referred to the living only—as though the rectory were to be conferred on Mr. Saul without any burden attached to it. “He has been here so long, dear,” said Fanny, “and understands the people so well.”
“I am so delighted,” said Florence.
“I am sure it is the best thing papa could do;—that is if he quite makes up his mind to give up the parish himself.”
This troubled Florence, who did not know that a baronet could hold a living.
“I thought he must give up being a clergyman now that Sir Hugh is dead?”
“O dear, no.” And then Fanny, who was great on ecclesiastical subjects, explained it all. “Even though he were to be a peer, he could hold a living if he pleased. A great many baronets are clergymen, and some of them do hold preferments. As to papa, the doubt has been with him whether he would wish to give up the work. But he will preach sometimes, you know; though of course he will not be able to do that unless Mr. Saul lets him. No one but the rector has a right to his own pulpit except the bishop; and he can preach three times a year if he likes it.”
“And suppose the bishop wanted to preach four times?”
“He couldn’t do it; at least, I believe not. But you see he never wants to preach at all—not in such a place as this—so that does not signify.”
“And will Mr. Saul come and live here, in this house?”
“Some day I suppose he will,” said Fanny, blushing.
“And you, dear?”
“I don’t know how that may be.”
“Come, Fanny.”
“Indeed I don’t, Florence, or I would tell you. Of course Mr. Saul has asked me. I never had any secret with you about that; have I?”
“No; you were very good.”
“Then he asked me again; twice again. And then there came—oh, such a quarrel between him and papa. It was so terrible. Do you know, I believe they wouldn’t speak in the vestry! Not but what each of them has the highest possible opinion of the other. But of course Mr. Saul couldn’t marry on a curacy. When I think of it it really seems that he must have been mad.”
“But you don’t think him so mad now, dear?”
“He doesn’t know a word about it yet; not a word. He hasn’t been in the house since, and papa and he didn’t speak—not in a friendly way—till the news came of poor Hugh’s being drowned. Then he came up to papa, and, of course, papa took his hand. But he still thinks he is going away.”
“And when is he to be told that he needn’t go?”
“That is the difficulty. Mamma will have to do it, I believe. But what she will say, I’m sure I for one can’t think.”
“Mrs. Clavering will have no difficulty.”
“You mustn’t call her Mrs. Clavering.”
“Lady Clavering then.”
“That’s a great deal worse. She’s your mamma now—not quite so much as she is mine, but the next thing to it.”
“She’ll know what to say to Mr. Saul.”
“But what is she to say?”
“Well, Fanny—you ought to know that. I suppose you do—love him?”
“I have never told him so.”
“But you will?”
“It seems so odd. Mamma will have to—Suppose he were to turn round and say he didn’t want me?”
“That would be awkward.”
“He would in a minute if that was what he felt. The idea of having the living would not weigh with him a bit.”
“But when he was so much in love before, it won’t make him out of love;—will it?”
“I don’t know,” said Fanny. “At any rate, mamma is to see him tomorrow, and after that I suppose;—I’m sure I don’t know—but I suppose he’ll come to the rectory as he used to do.”
“How happy you must be,” said Florence, kissing her. To this Fanny made some unintelligible demur. It was undoubtedly possible that, under the altered circumstances of the case, so strange a being as Mr. Saul might have changed his mind.
There
