“Have you found traces of Ellinor?” pursued the lady.
David drew back, shaking his head; but the parson found a different meaning in his wife’s bantering tone. He caught her plump hand.
“Ah, excellent Sophia!” said he. “I might have known you would come to the rescue, as ever! You have heard of the child!”
Madam Tutterville was no longer able to control the tide of her triumph:
“Heard of her? Traced—found her—seen her! But this hour come from her! Have held her in these arms!”
Her voice rose with ever increasing flourish till it broke upon the over-high note.
The next instant she was clasped in her lord’s embrace; and, as she sobbed with joy upon his shoulder, it may be that even the worthy gentleman’s own eyes grew wet. David stood quite still, in that intensity of stillness which cloaks an intensity of emotion. When the worthy couple had recovered from their effusiveness, Madam Tutterville, now with full gusto, began to narrate her story:
“You see, dear Horatio, I could not but feel that you regarded me to blame for poor Ellinor’s flight. And perhaps you are right, doctor, for I fear, in my anxiety, I did indeed fail to observe the scriptural rule that silence is a most excellent thing in woman: A melancholy breach of my usual rule of life——”
“Yes, dear,” said the parson blandly, “and so it was in Bath, Sophia——”
“Pray, my dear doctor, allow me time to speak. I do not mind admitting to you that the expedition to Bath was undertaken less with a view to the store-room (though you did require the Spanish olives), than——” she paused. “There has been a coldness in your eye this past month, Horatio. Oh, yes, my dear doctor, there is no use in denying! And, well, well, I grant you, it was a very sad thing, whatever we might have to reproach her with, to think of that poor young thing cast upon the world. You have always laughed at my presentiments; but, as the prophet says, there are more things in Heaven and earth, Horatio——”