It was long before the old rector could reconcile himself either to the new rector or his new son-in-law. Mrs. Clavering had now so warmly taken up Fanny’s part, and had so completely assumed a mother’s interest in her coming marriage, that Mr. Clavering, or Sir Henry, as we may now call him, had found himself obliged to abstain from repeating to her the wonder with which he still regarded his daughter’s choice. But to Harry he could still be eloquent on the subject. “Of course it’s all right now,” he said. “He’s a very good young man, and nobody would work harder in the parish. I always thought I was very lucky to have such an assistant. But upon my word I cannot understand Fanny; I cannot indeed.”
“She has been taken by the religious side of her character,” said Harry.
“Yes, of course. And no doubt it is very gratifying to me to see that she thinks so much of religion. It should be the first consideration with all of us at all times. But she has never been used to men like Mr. Saul.”
“Nobody can deny that he is a gentleman.”
“Yes; he is a gentleman. God forbid that I should say he was not; especially now that he is going to marry your sister. But—I don’t know whether you quite understand what I mean?”
“I think I do. He isn’t quite one of our sort.”
“How on earth she can ever have brought herself to look at him in that light!”
“There’s no accounting for tastes, sir. And, after all, as he’s to have the living, there will be nothing to regret.”
“No; nothing to regret. I suppose he’ll be up at the other house occasionally. I never could make anything of him when he dined at the rectory; perhaps he’ll be better there. Perhaps, when he’s married, he’ll get into the way of drinking a glass of wine like anybody else. Dear Fanny; I hope she’ll be happy. That’s everything.” In answer to this Harry took upon himself to assure his father that Fanny would be happy; and then they changed the conversation, and discussed the alterations which they would make in reference to the preservation of pheasants.
Mr. Saul and Fanny remained long together on that occasion, and when they parted he went off about his work, not saying a word to any other person in the house, and she betook herself as fast as her feet could carry her to her own room. She said not a word either to her mother, or to her sister, or to Florence as to what had passed at that interview; but, when she was first seen by any of them, she was very grave in her demeanour, and very silent. When her father congratulated her, which he did with as much cordiality as he was able to assume, she kissed him and thanked him for his care and kindness; but even this she did almost solemnly. “Ah, I see how it is to be,” said the old rector to his wife. “There are to be no more cakes and ale in the parish.” Then his wife reminded him of what he himself had said of the change which would take place in Mr. Saul’s ways when he should have a lot of children running about his feet. “Then I can only hope that they’ll begin to run about very soon,” said the old rector.
To her sister, Mary Fielding, Fanny said little or nothing of her coming marriage, but to Florence, who, as regarded that event, was in the same position as herself, she frequently did express her feelings—declaring how awful to her was the responsibility of the thing she was about to do. “Of course that’s quite true,” said Florence, “but it doesn’t make one doubt that one is right to marry.”
“I don’t know,” said Fanny. “When I think of it, it does almost make me doubt.”
“Then if I were Mr. Saul I would not let you think of it at all.”
“Ah;—that shows that you do not understand him. He would be the first to advise me to hesitate if he thought that—that—that;—I don’t know that I can quite express what I mean.”
“Under those circumstances Mr. Saul won’t think that—that—that—that—”
“Oh, Florence, it is too serious for laughing. It is indeed.” Then Florence also hoped that a time might come, and that shortly, in which Mr. Saul might moderate his views—though she did not express herself exactly as the rector had done.
Immediately after this Florence went back to Stratton, in order that she might pass what remained to her of her freedom with her mother and father, and that she might prepare herself for her wedding. The affair with her was so much hurried that she had hardly time to give her mind to those considerations which were weighing so heavily on Fanny’s mind. It was felt by all the Burtons—especially by Cecilia—that there was need for extension of their views in regard to millinery, seeing that Florence was to marry the eldest son and heir of a baronet. And old Mrs. Burton was awed almost into quiescence by the reflections which came upon her when she thought of the breakfast, and of the presence of Sir Henry Clavering. She at once summoned her daughter-in-law from Ramsgate to her assistance, and felt that all her experience, gathered from the wedding breakfasts of so many elder daughters, would hardly carry her through the difficulties of the present occasion.
The two widowed sisters were still at the great house when
