Then we went into Miss Saville’s little parlor again—the Rector and she were consulting anxiously together. The Rector was sadly clouded and cast down—he was a good man, but he was weaker than his sister.
“Yes, it is much better I should go,” she said; “I will go with Richard. Mr. Southcote—Harry!—if you are to have a stranger present let me come instead of the Rector—it might be awkward for William—he might meet the gentleman again; and consider he is a clergyman, and must not do anything unbecoming his station. I will come with poor Richard—it will do as well, will it not?”
“Quite as well,” said my husband; “better indeed, except that it will grieve you.”
“It will not grieve me so much as it would grieve William,” she said quickly; and that point was settled.
“Dear Miss Saville, it is through me this distress has come upon you,” I said, as she went out with us to the door. I looked up to her anxiously, now that I had come to esteem her so much. I was afraid she must think very little of me.
“My dear, it will be all settled through you,” said Miss Saville, “and that will be a blessing—I am glad it has come to this—very glad in my spirit, though it’s hard to the flesh. William will have peace at last!”
She went in abruptly as we left the door; she could not keep her composure any longer. With a woman’s sympathetic instinct, I knew she was gone away with her burden, to try if she could lighten it by tears.
“Harry,” I said gravely, when we went away, “she is not young nor pretty, nor clever, nor interesting—people don’t love her even when they only see her as I used to do. What has such a woman to reward her for the neglects and slights that are her portion now?”
“Patience and hope here, nothing more, Hester,” said Harry, “not even William loves her as she loves him—nothing but hope and patience—poor Martha!—and in the world to come, life everlasting. That is enough for her.”
Enough for any one, surely, surely! but God had made a difference between her life and ours.