When we left the church, it was not in the nature of mortal woman to help lingering to hear the plaudits which the admiring mothers of Cottisbourne bestowed upon my little Helen; some of them remembered my mother, and prophesied that this was to be “her very image;” others, loyal to the reigning monarchs, were divided as to whether she should be like her father or her mother; but there was no doubt about the principal fact, that such a beautiful baby never was seen. Little Harry by this time had deserted me for Amy, and the rest of the party had gone on before, so that I had only the Rector for my companion—the Rector, who, good man, had lingered with his natural ceremonious politeness, waiting for me. Mr. Saville was not great at conversation; and after we had exchanged a few remarks about the village and the parish, and the work which he was doing in both, I was much surprised when he, of his own accord, began another subject.
“We have heard from my brother in Australia to-day, Mrs. Southcote,” he said; “Miss Saville is somewhat agitated—did you not observe it?”
“No, indeed,” I said. “Is it painful news? oh, I hope not! or we only have been troubling her to-day.”
“The trouble is an honor, madam,” said my reverend companion, with one of his elaborate bows; “and the news is—not painful, certainly. My brother Richard, though unfortunate, was a man of mind—always a man of mind, Mrs. Southcote—and has, I am glad to say, recovered himself in his new sphere, as we are led to hope—he has, indeed,” and here the Rector sighed a small sigh—“married since he went abroad—and with Mr. Southcote’s liberal allowance I have no doubt he will do well.”
And again the excellent Rector sighed. Why did the good man sigh? “You do not disapprove of his marriage, Mr. Saville?” said I, in my ignorance.
“Disapprove! no—far be it from me to disapprove of an honorable estate,” said the Rector, looking wistfully up at the windows of the Rectory as we passed. “I have no doubt if Richard is mercifully supported in his changed ways he will be a happy man; but there are many men who never have it in their power to consult their own inclinations, Mrs. Southcote,” he continued, with a sentimental air, shaking his head slightly, and looking after his sister, who was walking before us. I could not help blushing, though I was very much inclined to laugh, and I hurried on immediately to rejoin my husband, for I was afraid that the Rector was about to make a confidante of me.
The good man looked disappointed, but succumbed into his usual grim politeness, as I hastened on and took Harry’s arm. My heart smote me when I saw his blank look, but I could not bear, knowing what a good man he was, to see him look ridiculous; and I am very much afraid that the Rector’s love sorrows would have been little else to me.
Harry was in great glee and most exuberant spirits. “What do you think, Hester?” he cried, in a half whisper, when we were sufficiently far apart from our companions—“the Rector’s going to be married—there’s news for you—what do you think of it?”
“I am sure there is nothing at all laughable in it, Harry,” said I, taking the opportunity, gladly, to resent my own strong inclination to laughter upon him.
Harry did not cease for my reproof, but his laugh was inward and subterraneous. “We must have the thing done in grand style,” he said, “and astonish the bashful bridegroom by the reception we give him. Did they tell you the Ethiopian had changed his skin, Hester?—that Richard had ‘settled?’ I suppose I ought to be glad to believe it—but I have no faith in that fellow. And now what can we do for Martha,—my kindest friend?—not that I don’t thank you, with all my heart, Hester, for what you have done already—she will never forget the honor you have given her to-day.”