“He has never spoken a word to me since,” said Fanny to her brother that evening; “that is, not a word as to what occurred then. Of course it was very embarrassing at first, though I don’t think he minded it much. He came after a day or two just the same as ever, and he almost made me think that he had forgotten it.”
“And he wasn’t confused?”
“Not at all. He never is. The only difference is that I think he scolds me more than he used to do.”
“Scold you!”
“Oh dear, yes; he always scolded me if he thought there was anything wrong, especially about giving the children holidays. But he does it now more than ever.”
“And how do you bear it?”
“In a half-and-half sort of way. I laugh at him, and then do as I’m bid. He makes everybody do what he bids them at Clavering—except papa, sometimes. But he scolds him, too. I heard him the other day in the library.”
“And did my father take it from him?”
“He did, in a sort of a way. I don’t think papa likes him; but then he knows, and we all know, that he is so good. He never spares himself in anything. He has nothing but his curacy, and what he gives away is wonderful.”
“I hope he won’t take to scolding me,” said Harry, proudly.
“As you don’t concern yourself about the parish, I should say that you’re safe. I suppose he thinks mamma does everything right, for he never scolds her.”
“There is no talk of his going away.”
“None at all. I think we should all be sorry, because he does so much good.”
Florence reigned supreme in the estimation of the rectory family all the evening of her arrival and till after breakfast the next morning, but then the bride elect was restored to her natural preeminence. This, however, lasted only for two days, after which the bride was taken away. The wedding was very nice, and pretty, and comfortable; and the people of Clavering were much better satisfied with it than they had been with that other marriage which has been mentioned as having been celebrated in Clavering Church. The rectory family was generally popular, and everybody wished well to the daughter who was being given away. When they were gone there was a breakfast at the rectory, and speeches were made with much volubility. On such an occasion the rector was a great man, and Harry also shone in conspicuous rivalry with his father. But Mr. Saul’s spirit was not so well tuned to the occasion as that of the rector or his son, and when he got upon his legs, and mournfully expressed a hope that his friend Mr. Fielding might be enabled to bear the trials of this life with fortitude, it was felt by them all that the speaking had better be brought to an end.
“You shouldn’t laugh at him, Harry,” Fanny said to her brother afterwards, almost seriously. “One man can do one thing and one another. You can make a speech better than he can, but I don’t think you could preach so good a sermon.”
“I declare I think you’re getting fond of him after all,” said Harry. Upon hearing this Fanny turned away with a look of great offence. “No one but a brother,” said she, “would say such a thing as that to me, because I don’t like to hear the poor man ridiculed without cause.” That evening, when they were alone, Fanny told Florence the whole story about Mr. Saul. “I tell you, you know, because you’re like one of ourselves now. It has never been mentioned to anyone out of the family.”
Florence declared that the story would be sacred with her.
“I’m sure of that, dear, and therefore I like you to know it. Of course such a thing was quite out of the question. The poor fellow has no means at all—literally none. And then, independently of that—”
“I don’t think I should ever bring myself to think of that as the first thing,” said Florence.
“No, nor would I. If I really were attached to a man, I think I would tell him so, and agree to wait, either with hope or without it.”
“Just so, Fanny.”
“But there was nothing of that kind; and, indeed, he’s the sort of man that no girl would think of being in love with—isn’t he? You see he will hardly take the trouble to dress himself decently.”
“I have only seen him at a wedding, you know.”
“And for him he was quite bright. But you will see plenty of him if you will go to the schools with me. And indeed he comes here a great deal, quite as much as he did before that happened. He is so good, Florence!”
“Poor man!”
“I can’t in the least make out from his manner whether he has given up thinking about it. I suppose he has. Indeed, of course he has, because he must know that it would be of no sort of use. But he is one of those men of whom you can never say whether they are happy or not; and you never can be quite sure what may be in his mind.”
“He is not bound to the place at all—not like your father?”
“Oh, no,” said Fanny, thinking perhaps that
