Part 10 — CHAPTER LII.

Fane had already confided Langley’s history to Lady Lee, and he now showed her the testimony of his innocence, and consulted her as to the best course to be pursued.

They agreed it would be best to say nothing, either to Langley or Orelia, of the matter, until Mr Payne should have apprised Mr Levitt of his nephew’s innocence, and effected a reconciliation. Fane did not in the least doubt that his uncle would be eager to extend forgiveness; but a delay of a day or two would be trifling, and the pleasure of a first meeting between the lovers would be greatly enhanced by the removal, beforehand, of every obstacle to their happiness.

Mr Payne, coming down from town to report his ill success in the attempt to discover Seager, was agreeably surprised by Fane’s news. He posted off without delay to show the document to his friend Mr Levitt, and, a couple of days afterwards, wrote to tell Fane that the news had produced the best effect on his uncle’s health, that he was eager to embrace Langley, and that they would be down together in person on the following day.

Fane was seated on a sofa near the fire (it was a cold morning) whispering into Lady Lee’s willing yet averted ear, numerous reckless and persuasive arguments for an immediate union. What were riches to them while they were thus kept apart? He, for his part, would, he said, dig cheerfully all day, could he be sure of finding her ready to give zest to his pottage, cheerfulness to his fireside, when he came home. Let Bagot take her income; and as for Julius, they would take him and flee to some remote corner of Europe, there to abide till the Colonel relented, or had drunk himself to death. Lady Lee smiled at all this display of love, but shook her head. He, Durham, must be patient, she said.

“Miss Payne,” called out Fane to Orelia, “be on my side.” Orelia was sitting in a bay window designing a picture. She seldom came near the fire, and never felt cold. “I am telling Hester that we ought to break through the cobwebs that sunder us—scatter the filthy lucre to the winds—snatch up Julius out of reach of the ogre Bagot, and try if the wings of Eros cannot shield us against the hardest fate.”

“Hester has given up much for you already, Captain Fane,” said the austere Orelia. “Your coming has upset the rarest plan; and now I am left to walk the path alone.”

“What was the plan?” inquired Fane.

“We were going, Orelia and I,” said Lady Lee, with an irreverent smile, “to daff the world aside—to devote ourselves to good works—and we actually set out on our thorny path; but I see now, that if we had continued as we begun, casting as we did so many glances backward on the vanities of the past, we should, if justice had been administered now as in the days of the patriarchs, have both been made pillars of salt.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear,” returned Orelia, sharpening her pencil and her tone. “I, at least, was quite resolute to persevere, and am so still.”

“Perhaps an equally unworthy excuse, as that which Hester pleads for changing her mind, may yet avail you,” suggested Fane.

“Never,” returned Orelia, with the greatest firmness.

“Do you think she really doesn’t care for Langley?” whispered Fane to Lady Lee.

Lady Lee looked towards her friend with an affectionate smile. “She’s an odd girl,” she said, “and ’tisn’t easy to ascertain her feelings till they are strongly excited.”

“I’ll prove them, now,” said Fane, rising, and going to a portfolio in the room, and taking thence a drawing. “Miss Payne,” he said, “you are always ready to recognise skill in art. See, here is a sketch I lately rescued from the oblivion of a bookseller’s shop; what do you think of it?”

Orelia took it. No one knew better than she the peculiar touch and bold outline. She gazed at it earnestly for a minute—looked up wonderingly and inquiringly at Fane; but, meeting a peculiar searching glance, she lowered her eyes, and coloured violently.

“If you like it, and would wish others of the same sort, I think I could procure you some,” he said.

Orelia laid down the drawing—glanced aside—again looked at it—then turned her eye uneasily to Lady Lee, who was smilingly watching her. “How very heartless to trifle with me so,” thought Orelia, “particularly of Hester; but I’ll show them they can’t move me. I won’t be their sport.”

So she stoically resumed her employment, feeling very fidgety nevertheless. In her agitation, she shaded a cloud in her sky with sepia instead of the proper grey tint—dashed a brushful of water at it—smudged her whole sky irretrievably, as if an eccentric-looking thunderstorm were brewing—rubbed a hole in the paper in getting it out, and threw down her brush with an expression of impatience.

“He’s a very promising artist the person who did this sketch,” said the unfeeling Fane to Lady Lee. “I feel quite interested in him.” Lady Lee shook her head while she smiled at him. She saw her impetuous friend was getting quite excited. “Serve her right for her hypocrisy,” whispered Fane. “I don’t pity her in the least. They must be in Frewenham by this time,” he added, looking at his watch; “and, allowing an hour for the interview between them and Langley, they will be here to lunch.”

Orelia’s ears were on the stretch to catch any further information, which, however, she would have died rather than ask for.

But the only further talk on the subject was when Fane asked Lady Lee “if she didn’t think it would be a kind act to take this poor artist by the hand, and give him an opening to make his way?”

“Poor artist! Take him by the hand, indeed!” thought Orelia, with a glance of great scorn; and indeed she would hardly have been content to vent her indignation in glances, had not Miss Fillett just then entered, and changed the current of their discourse. Kitty’s manner was excited, and her eyes were red.

“Ho, my lady,” cried she, “here’s Noble have come, and he wish to see your ladyship.”

“Noble!” cried her ladyship; “did they not say he was with Colonel Lee?”

“He was, my lady; but, ho! Colonel Lee”—here Fillett choked. “Harry’ll tell you himself: come in, Noble, and speak to my lady.”

Noble, who was waiting at the door, entered, and made his bow.

“You come from the Colonel—you have a letter for me,” said Lady Lee, holding out her hand for the expected missive.

“No, my lady,” said Noble.

“Speak up, Harry,” said Miss Fillett, with a sob.

“We started for France, me and the Colonel,” said Noble, clearing his throat; “and as soon as ever he got ashore, he was took ill in the same way as he was in London. The doctors said ’twas owing to his not being able to keep nothing on his stomach on the passage across—brandy nor nothing—for the water was very rough.”

“He is ill, then,” said Lady Lee; “not seriously, I trust.”

“My lady, he’s gone,” cried Fillett.

“Dead?” said Lady Lee.

“Dead,” said Noble. “He got quite wild when he was took to the hotel; and after we got him to bed, he did himself a mischief, by jumping out of window while he was out of his mind. When we picked him up he couldn’t speak.”

“And he died so?” cried Lady Lee.

“Not immediate,” said Noble, speaking in a deep low voice, and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Lady Lee; “he got his speech again for a little, and knowed me. ‘This is the finish, Noble,’ says he, ‘and I’m glad of it; I wouldn’t have consented to live.’ Them was his last sensible words. He talked afterwards, to be sure, but not to know what he was saying. He appeared to be in the belief that he was back at the Heronry. He talked of the horses there, in particular of old Coverly, who died of gripes better than six years ago.”

Lady Lee put her handkerchief to her eyes. She had a tear for poor Bagot. Death sponged away the recollection of his animosity towards her, and she remembered only the old familiar face and rough good-nature. “The poor Colonel,” she said; “the poor, poor Colonel! And his remains, Noble?”

“There was two gentlemen as was friends of his in the town; Sir John Barrett was one of ’em. They was very sorry; they ordered everything, and went to the funeral; and though it warn’t altogether in the style I could wish—no hearse nor mourners—yet it was done respectable.”

Lady Lee wept silently, and Fane thought her tears became her. Both of them probably remembered that the only obstacle to their union was removed by Bagot’s death, but the taste of both was too fine to allow such a thought to be expressed that day in any way. “Leave me now, Noble,” she said; “I will hear more from you another time.”

Kitty—who, when Noble reached the catastrophe, had been seized with an hysterical weeping that sounded like a succession of small sneezes—opened the door for him, and followed him out. Noble walked down stairs before her, not turning his head nor speaking.

“Harry,” said Kitty, with a sniff, when he reached the hall—“Harry!”

Noble turned, and surveyed her austerely.

“Ho, Harry,” said Kitty, “haven’t you got a word for a friend?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “for a friend I’ve got more than a word.”

“I thought we were friends, Noble,” said Miss Fillett, taking up the corner of her apron, and examining it.

“There’s people in the world one can’t be friends with, however a body may wish it,” replied Noble.

“And am I one of that sort, Harry?” said Kitty, with a sidelong look. “Am I, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “yes, you be. Look here! I’d have cut off my arm to do you any good” (striking it with the edge of his hand). “You know that very well, but I can’t stand your ways—no, I can’t, and I ain’t agoing to any more.”

“What ways do you mean?” said Miss Fillett innocently; “I’m sorry my ways isn’t pleasant, Harry.”

“Pleasant!” said Harry; “they can be pleasant enough when you like; but when you drive a man a’most crazy, and make him wish to cut his fellow-creeturs’ throats, and his own afterwards, do you think that’s pleasant?”

Kitty at this tossed up her head, and sniffed with an injured air. “If I give you such thoughts as them, Mr Noble, of course ’tis better to have nothink to say to me. I wasn’t aware my conversation made people murderers.”

“Look here,” said Noble; “I don’t say I like you the worse for it. No, cuss it! I like you the better—that’s the cussed part of it; but what I mean is, that I ain’t going to be tormented and kept awake at nights, and to lose my meals as well as my sleep, and to go a-hating my fellow-creeturs, just upon account of your philanderings; and the best way is not to care who you philander with, and to leave you to keep company with them as can stand having the life worried out of ’em better than I can.”

“I’m glad you’ve spoke out, Noble,” said Kitty, who spied relenting in his look, and who kept up the injured air. “I didn’t know I was such a rogue and a villain as I’m made out to be by you. If I’d wished to slay or hang somebody, you couldn’t have spoke worse of me.”

“Well,” said Noble, “I didn’t mean to vex you, though you’ve vexed me many a time. I was only saying why it was I warn’t going to be fooled any longer. Come, I’ll shake hands with you.”

“Ho, what! take the hand of a young person that wishes people to cut other people’s throats! I wonder at you,” said Miss Fillett, allowing him to get only the tip of her little finger into his hand.

“Come,” said the unhappy victim of female arts, “say you won’t torment me any more with talking and smiling at fellows, and I’ll be as fond of you as ever. Look here; here’s some French gloves that I smuggled over, and was going to put into your bandbox without your knowing who they’d come from. Let me try ’em on, Kitty.”

Miss Fillett glanced aside at the packet displayed in his hand. “What lovely colours!” thought Kitty; “that lilac is genteel, and so is the straw colour. He never could have chose ’em himself.” But she still feigned displeasure, and Mr Noble’s desire for reconciliation was becoming proportionably ardent, when the pair were disturbed by a carriage driving up to the door, and made off to terminate the interview in the kitchen.

The carriage in question contained those whom Fane expected—viz., Mr Payne, Mr Levitt, and Langley. The latter helped out his uncle (who appeared to be in much better health) with a care and affection that showed they were entirely reconciled. At the first meeting Mr Levitt had attempted to maintain his cynical demeanour, and was highly disgusted with himself, afterwards, to remember how signally he had failed. “Till I witnessed that meeting,” said Mr Payne afterwards to Fane, “I had no idea how much your uncle loved that boy.”

Fane was looking out of the window, and saw them approach. “Here they are,” he said—“your papa, Miss Payne, and my uncle; and I see my cousin Langley is with them. Have you ever heard me speak of him? I think you’ll like him.”

“Do you, indeed!” said Orelia stiffly; for she had by no means recovered her temper since the drawings had been produced by Fane, and was not disposed to be particularly amiable to her new guests.

Mr Payne entered first and kissed Orelia.

“I bring an old and a young friend of mine, my dear. This is Mr Levitt, and—where’s Langley? Come along, Langley.”

Langley stept forward and took the young lady’s hand.

“Onslow!” cried Orelia.

“Yes,” said the ex-dragoon, in a low voice, and with his well-known smile, “Onslow and Langley Levitt.”

“You didn’t know, sir,” said Fane to his uncle, “of the fatted calf we had ready for your prodigal nephew. He and Orelia are old friends—I think I may add, something more than old friends.”

“You don’t say so!” said Mr Levitt, pressing forward and taking both Orelia’s hands in his. “My dear,” he said, watching Langley’s and her agitation, “I believe you are going to put the finishing stroke to my happiness, and I shall like you better even than I expected.”

“Why, God bless me!” cried Mr Payne, “I never heard a word of this. The monkey has been extremely sly.”

Orelia, now a little paler than usual, was regarding her lover with steady eyes.

“I shall never call you anything but Onslow,” she said; and she kept her word.

Mr Levitt was in every respect satisfied with the choice of his nephews, as indeed he had good reason to be. What did the man expect, I wonder! He was almost as impatient as the young men to put all future disappointment out of the power of fate by immediate marriage; and as the ladies did not offer a very spirited resistance, he had his way.

Accordingly the courtship was short, and principally remarkable for a revolution that took place in the opinions of Lady Lee. Formerly, she had been accustomed, in the moments of dignified cynicism which occasionally visited her, to be very unsparing in her contempt for the ordinary forms of love-making; kissing, in particular, she considered to be a practice even beneath contempt, from its extreme silliness—fit, she would say, only for children—an opinion she had occasionally communicated to Sir Joseph when his fondness became troublesome.

This, however, with many graver theories, had been upset since she fell in love with Fane. The first time he kissed her it evaporated in an uncommon flutter of not unpleasant emotion, which puzzled her ladyship the more because she perfectly remembered that a kiss from Sir Joseph had never caused her to feel any greater agitation than if she had flattened her nose against a pane of glass.

However, to do justice to her consistency, she didn’t abandon the theory at the first defeat; but, taking counsel with herself, and fortifying her mind anew with reasoning on the subject, the next time he offered to be so childish, she repelled the attempt with a great deal of dignity. Fane, who had a theory of his own on such matters (whether the result of intuition or experience, I can’t say), and knew what he was about perfectly, very wisely let her alone for a time. Her ladyship grew quite fidgety; and though Fane had never been more brilliant, she paid very little attention to what he said, and, when he only shook hands with her at parting, felt half inclined to quarrel with him. After this, Fane never met with any resistance; on the contrary, not content with one of these silly proceedings at meeting and parting, her ladyship would sometimes manœuvre, artfully enough, for an extra or surplus salute. Such is the singular superiority of practice over theory.

Very shocking and humiliating to the philosopher and student of human nature is the fact, that these two intellectual beings, with their high imaginations and their cultivated tastes, should sometimes, during their courtship, demean themselves with no greater regard for their dignity than a redfaced dairymaid and her sweetheart Robin. But it is true, nevertheless; and if Fane discovered a fresh charm in his goddess, it was in the naïve pleasure with which she condescended (at least he thought it condescension) to express her fondness. And Langley, for the same reason, was doubly delighted with the warmth which the outwardly majestic Orelia did not scruple to display towards the man to whom she had given her heart. This is all I shall say on this part of the subject, as courtship is of the class of performances which afford much more satisfaction to the dramatis personæ than the audience.

They were married, these two pairs, in the church which Hester’s father had formerly served; and afterwards Fane and she set off for the Heronry, where they were quite alone (for Rosa and the Curate had, before their coming, gone to take possession of the vicarage in Mr Levitt’s gift which Fane had formerly offered to Josiah, and which he did not again refuse), while Langley and Orelia stayed at the cottage.

CHAPTER THE LAST

It is a vile practice that of winding up a story with a marriage, as if the sole object of all that inkshed was to put a couple of characters to bed; and I wonder the rigid propriety of our novel writers and readers doesn’t revolt at it. Besides, considering the matter on artistic grounds, it is not satisfactory to check, by the chilling word Finis, the ardour of the reader, just excited to a high pitch at the spectacle of the hero and heroine sinking into each other’s arms. It is like quitting the opera, as the curtain falls on a splendid group, tinted with rose light, while the whole strength of the company sings a chorus; and going splashing home through the rain to a bachelor’s lodging, where the maid has let the fire out and forgot the matches, and you have to stumble to bed punchless and oysterless in the dark.

A year passed, after the marriages aforesaid, and a party, including many of our principal characters, was assembled in the little church of Lanscote to celebrate another wedding.

Josiah was the officiating clergyman; he had come partly for that purpose, partly to perform another ceremony. The persons to be joined together in holy matrimony, on this occasion, were Rosa and Bruce.

The principal agent in effecting this had been the old antiquary Mr Titcherly. That lover of inscriptions had now become himself the subject of a tombstone; and having, as aforesaid, great regard for Bruce, and having no kindred of his own to bequeath to, had in his will, after making ample provision for the future editions of his great work on the antiquities of Doddington, left the rest of his property, amounting to about £4000, to Rosa, on condition she married Bruce; and this, together with the solicitations of his wife, who had been gained over to the other party by Bruce’s enthusiastic description of Rosa’s excellencies, had melted the heart of that splendid old fellow the dean of Trumpington. That reverend personage was now present at the wedding, together with his wife, and Dr Macvino, who had dined the night before at the Heronry, and pronounced the port excellent.

Fane gave away the little magnificent bride, half hidden in an ample rich veil of white lace sent by Orelia, which cost nobody knows how much. Bruce was in his dragoon uniform. His mustache had flourished much in the last year, and Rosa thought him handsomer than Apollo. Langley was there, and Mr Oates appeared as groom’s man, and the two Clumbers as bridesmaids.

The ceremony was over, the bridegroom duly shaken by the hand, the bride, all blush and bloom and smile, duly kissed. The Curate, leaving the altar, took up his position beside the antique font, and the group following him, and ranging themselves round, lost the gorgeous hues which the one painted window above the altar of Lanscote Church had shed on them during the marriage ceremony; and, as the Curate began the baptismal service, they stood in the cheerful light of the morning sun.

The principal personage of this second ceremony had been held, during the first one, in the arms of Miss Fillett in the background. Kitty, who looked rather staid and matronly, in consequence of having been married to Mr Noble a few weeks before, and who had hitherto, in this new capacity, acquitted herself entirely to Harry’s satisfaction, dandled the infant in the most approved fashion. “Have done, Master Julius,” said Kitty, giving that young gentleman a good shake as he attempted to rush up the pulpit-stairs. “Can’t you behave for a minute, not even when they are a-baptising of your little sister?”

The preliminary part of the service being read, the infant was handed to Josiah. He took it gently in his arms, and looked down on its small face, where he saw the rudiments of Hester’s features. The service was for a moment at a standstill, and a tear was seen to drop on the child’s cheek as he bent over it—the first holy water that touched its face that morning. “Good fellow, old Josey,” thought Fane, as he noticed it. “Poor dear Josiah!” mentally ejaculated Hester, with a truer though secret knowledge of the source of his emotion.

The dean of Trumpington hemmed impatiently—he wanted his breakfast; and the sympathetic Doctor Macvino, going behind Josiah, jogged his arm. The Curate started from his reverie, and looked around. “Name this child,” he said, proceeding with the ritual.

“Rosa Orelia,” answered the bride, who officiated as one godmother, while Trephina Clumber was proxy for Orelia (who was detained at home by private business of her own.)

The christening was finished without further delay. Then the assembly passed forth from the old ivy-covered porch, and, amid the admiration and applause of the inhabitants of Lanscote, entered their carriages to drive back to the Heronry.

The breakfast was pronounced by Dr Macvino, by no means an incompetent judge, a magnificent affair. Speeches were made afterwards—one jocosely cynical, and sprinkled with puns, by Mr Levitt; one gay, fluent, and agreeable, from Captain O’Reilly, a fresh-coloured man, with white teeth, who had succeeded Tindal in command of the detachment, and who had practised popular oratory at various contested elections; one rich and oily, delivered ore rotundo, by Dr Macvino, with some others.

The newly-married pair had driven off; the guests had dispersed; even the Curate had, in despite of the urgent entreaties of Hester and Durham, inexorably departed. Fane and his wife were alone together in the library.

“I told you yesterday, Hester,” he said, leaning over the back of her chair, “of the opening into public life now offered me. My answer must be written to-night.”

Hester looked uneasy. “You will refuse it, Durham, won’t you?”

“I think not, Hester.”

“I thought we had been very happy this year past. I knew I had, and I flattered myself you had; but you are weary of me;” and, as she spoke, the first sad tears since her marriage came into her eyes.

“I swear to you,” he said, removing the tears in the readiest way that occurred to him—“I swear to you that I would rather live the past year over again than the best ten others of my existence. But what right have I to continue this life of pleasant uselessness, when I may exert myself?”

“Uselessness!” said his wife; “do you call being my companion and instructor uselessness?”

“You have a new companion now in that young Christian of yours, whom I hear squalling,” said Fane; “she will prevent you from missing me. As to the instruction part, I have learnt as much as I could teach for the life of me. If I have widened your mind, you have no less refined mine; and, could I but rid myself of a certain uneasy conviction that we are both of us accountable beings, I would contentedly let the world slide for ever as softly and easily as now. But is this unproductive interchange of sentiment, however elevated and refined, fit to be the sole occupation of a man who can be up and doing?”

Hester sighed. “You force me,” said she, “to look at a truth I would willingly shut my eyes to. One other year would not tire you, Durham; put it off for one—only one.”

“But the opportunity would be gone,” said Fane. “Come, make up your mind to it, and you will acknowledge next year that, in watching my career, applauding my success, if I meet with it, soothing my disappointments when they find me, you have new and worthier occupation.”

Hester disputed no farther; he wrote the letter of acceptance; and next year she acknowledged that she was growing more ambitious for him than he was for himself.

The Curate did not remain long in the living to which Mr Levitt had presented him. An incident that occurred in the second year of his incumbency gave him a disgust at the place. A female parishioner, of tolerably mature years, made a dead set at Josiah. She had experiences to impart; she took share in his parochial matters; she even studied botany; and the unsuspecting Josiah was the only person who didn’t penetrate her designs on his heart. When the fair one found these would certainly fail, she brought an action for breach of promise; and the evidence being about as strong as that in the celebrated case of Bardell versus Pickwick, the jury, as Englishmen and fathers, of course found for the plaintiff, with £200 damages. About that time Dean Bruce, in consideration of the family connection, managed to get Josiah elected canon of the cathedral; and in course of time he became a prebend. He has a good house and capital garden; his study is one of the pleasantest rooms to be found anywhere, with a cloistered air about it, the pointed window all hung with ivy, looking on the great window of the cathedral, and on one of the buttressed towers. He has an ancient married housekeeper, who looks faithfully after his comforts; he entertains his friends nobly when they come to see him (his small but choice cellar was laid in by Dr Macvino); the great library of the cathedral is within a few paces of his door, where he is treated by the librarian with more deference than the bishop himself; and when he needs change he goes down to the Heronry. Time softens the acuteness of his disappointment in love, and the recollection of it now brings a not unpleasant sadness.

Poor old Josey!—after all, perhaps the most loveable and respectable of our dramatis personæ—more so, at least, than our heroes, whose more discursive natures included some corners which they would probably have been unwilling that even their wives should pry into; whereas Josiah’s heart might have been turned page by page; and, while much might have been found to interest, there would have been little to correct, and nothing to blot. But somehow or other, women do not seem always to give such unobtrusive merits the highest place in their affections. Orelia and Lady Lee were, as we have seen, among the number; and many young ladies will, we doubt not, understand and sympathise with their errors of judgment.

A day or two after Rosa’s marriage, Hester got a letter from Orelia. “Mine is a girl too,” she said, “and I’ve set my heart on her marrying Julius when they are of a proper age. You must promise to forward the project, Hester.” And as young persons invariably allow their parents to choose for them on these points, and never presume to form any counter predilections of their own, there is, of course, every prospect that Orelia’s desire will be gratified.

Major Tindal did not easily forgive Orelia’s marriage, nor forget his own discomfiture. He remains a sporting, hard-riding bachelor; and when one of his acquaintances marries, he affects to pity him. “Poor devil!” he says, “I’ll write and condole with him.”

Mr Seager, coming out of jail at the end of two years, found himself without money, friends, or character. He could not, of course, resume his old position; but Seager was not proud, and fitted himself with admirable facility to a new one. He started in the thimble-rig line, that being a profession requiring little other capital than dexterity and a knowledge of human nature under its more credulous and pigeonable aspect. He augments the income derived from this source by that which he earns as a racing prophet. He advertises that he, Seager, is the only man who can foretell the winners of all the great events; asserts that he has hitherto been infallible; and professes his readiness to let correspondents enjoy a lucrative peep into the future, on their enclosing a specified number of postage stamps. From such shifts as these he ekes out a living.

Bagot could not have lived so; and is better as he is, sleeping under his foreign turf. In the grave he preserves a kind of incognito, and when called upon to answer for his deeds, may certainly plead a misnomer; for the French stone-mason who carved his unpretending tombstone, taking the name of the deceased from dictation, Gallicised it, and inscribed on the monument “Ci-gît Monsieur le Colonel Bagote-Lys.”

Another marriage had been celebrated in Lanscote Church a short time before Rosa’s. Jennifer Greene had brought her arts and experience to bear with more effect on Squire Dubbley than on the Curate. The thoroughly subjugated Squire, after being compelled to see all the females of his establishment, under fifty years of age, replaced by the most withered frumps to be found in those parts, had yielded to his fate. His adviser, Mr Randy, had been previously disposed of.

Jennifer had no sooner established her ascendancy, than she proceeded to exert it in the expulsion of Mr Randy. Thus alone in power, she was not long in convincing the Squire that she was quite necessary to his existence, and his sole defence against a horde of plunderers. The Squire, moreover, was impressed by the good looks of the housekeeper, to which the Curate had been so insensible; and the grand attack, which had only harassed Josiah, had laid the unprotected Squire at her feet.

Lady Lee, I am loth to lose you! Not with this page will your form pass rustling out of sight. But, reader, her independent life has ceased—her thoughts are now centred in the career of another—and a chronicle of her deeds and aspirations would be a mere repetition of, to you, humdrum happiness. Her restlessness, and discontent, and languor are no more; she has lost even the memory of these since the event which, like this last sentence of my last chapter, has put a period to Lady Lee’s Widowhood.