"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 7)

“Not to be married, sir?”

“No, no; my ship, man, my ship.”

“Oh!” said Humphrey; “because I was thinking, sir. There’s Miss Rea, you know.”

“What about her?” said Richard, sharply.

“Oh, only that she’s down at Tolcarne now, sir. They say she’s been better lately. There was some talk about her being engaged to an officer—that captain, sir, as come down and stayed with us—you, I mean—but they say that’s all broken off, because he was married already. His wife fetched him, and he’s gone off in a regiment to India.”

Richard remained silent.

“Well, come—look here, Master Dick, you say you won’t take the place back?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then let’s go halves.”

“Humphrey, it is yours by right; keep it,” said Richard, decisively.

“Well, come then, sir, we were boys together, you won’t refuse to do your old companion a good turn?”

“Anything consistent that you ask me to do, Humphrey, I’ll do with pleasure.”

“Then come down and be my best man at my wedding.”

Richard hesitated, for there was a battle going on within his breast. He longed—longed intensely to go down and see Cornwall again. Tiny Rea was there—he might see her. Yes, and make himself more wretched than ever, for he could not speak to her. It would be madness to go—and yet once—to see the old place before he left England—just for a few hours. And why should he not see Tiny, just to tell her of his unaltered faith? He felt that he would give the world to go, and yet pride kept him back, “All right—I’ll walk in, Mrs Fiddison,” said a voice, and Frank Pratt entered.

“Well, Dick, old man, how are you? Ah, Humphrey, I told you I should turn up some time.”

“I’m trying to get Master Dick here, sir, to come down and be my best man at the wedding.”

“Well, he’ll do that for you, surely,” said Pratt, quietly. “Go down, Dick. I’ve promised Humphrey to go. I said I would directly he asked.”

Pratt looked very solemn over it; but there was tremendous exultation in his heart as he thought of seeing Pin, for the family had left Russell Square directly after the unpleasant éclaircissement.

“He’ll come, Humphrey. There, I’ll promise for him, and so you may make your mind happy.”

“But just say you will, Master Dick,” said Humphrey, rising.

“Well, I will, Humphrey,” said Richard, holding out his hand, though he repented the next moment, as his successor took his leave.

“Seen Mrs Vanleigh lately?” said Pratt, as soon as they were alone.

“Poor woman! no, not for two days. I must call.”

“Van’s behaving very well now that it’s too late. There’s a regular allowance for her at his army agents. I didn’t believe a man could have changed so as he did. It was that fever did it, coming upon the shock. Poor wretch! I never saw a man so stricken down as he was at the poor girl’s funeral.”

He caught Richard’s eye.

“There, what a blundering ass I am, Dick, old man. It’s my trade to rout out all sorts of old sores. But, mum, I won’t say any more. How’s our friend the cabby?”

“Oh, quite well!”

“And Madame?”

“Excellently well. They say that perhaps Mrs Vanleigh is coming to stay with them again; but I don’t think it would be wise for the poor woman to do so.”

“Quite right,” said Pratt. “Well, I must be off and work. I’ve got an Indian case on—Jeefee Rustam versus Tomkins, and two or three more things to get out of the way before I go down to Cornwall. By the way, I met our languid friend, Flick, at the dub yesterday.”

“Well?”

“He cut me, sir. Looked bayonets, lance-points, and sabres at me. Heigho! Well, we can’t all win. Ta-ta.”

“Good-bye.”

“Cornwall, mind.”

Richard nodded, and he was left alone, to make up his mind a dozen times that he could not go down to the old place without a great sacrifice of dignity, and as often something seemed to whisper him that he must go; and to that faint whisper he lent an attentive ear, for the desire grew so strong at last that he found himself unable to resist.

A Fellow-Traveller.

“Don’t mind telling you now,” said Frank Pratt, sitting back in the railway carriage, with his hands under his head, and great puffs of smoke issuing from between his lips as he stared at Richard, who was gazing quietly at the pleasant Devon prospect past which they flew.

“Don’t mind telling me what?” said Richard, dreamily.

“That I never expected to get you down here. Dick, old man, I’ve felt like a steam-tug fussing about a big ship these last few days. However, I’ve got you out of dock at last.”

“Yes,” said Richard, dreamily, “you’ve got me out of dock at last.”

They relapsed into silence for a time, Pratt sitting watching his friend, and noting more than ever the change that had come over him during the last few months. There were lines in his forehead that did not exist before, and a look of staid, settled melancholy, very different from the calm, insouciant air that used to pervade his countenance.

“Poor old Dick,” muttered Pratt, laying aside his pipe; “I mustn’t let him look down like this.” Then aloud, “Dick, old boy, I’m going to preach to you.”

Richard turned to him with a sad smile.

“Go on, then,” he said.

“I will,” said Pratt. “Never mind the text or the sequence of what I say. I only wanted to talk to you, old fellow, about life.”

“I was just then thinking about death,” said Richard, quietly.

“About death?”

“I was visiting in spirit the little corner at Highgate where that poor girl lies, and thinking of a wish she expressed.”

“What was that?”

Richard shook his head, and they were silent as the train rushed on.

“Life is a strange mystery, Dick,” said Pratt at last, laying his hand on his friend’s knee; “and I know it is giving you great pain to come down here and see others happy. It is to give them pleasure you are coming down?”

Richard nodded.

“Last time we were down here together, Dick, I was one of the most miserable little beggars under the sun. I don’t mind owning it now.”

His friend grew more attentive.

“You were happy then, old fellow, and very hard you tried to make others so too, but I was miserable.”

“Why?”

“Because I was poor—a perfect beggar, without a prospect of rising, and I had found out that in this queer little body of mine there was a very soft heart. Dick, old boy, the wheel of fortune has given a strange turn since then. I’ve gone up and you have gone down, and ’pon my soul, old fellow, I’m very, very sorry.”

“Nonsense, Franky,” said Richard, speaking cheerfully. “If ever a man was glad, I am, at your prosperity. But you don’t look so very cheerful, after all.”

“How can I?” said Frank, dolefully, “with you on my mind for one thing, and the lion’s mouth gaping for my unlucky head.”

“Lion’s mouth?”

“Yes, Dick; I’m going to Tolcarne to pop my head in; and, to make matters worse, there’s a horrible, sphinxy griffin sits and guards the lion’s den.”

“You mean that you are going to propose for little Fin?”

“I am, Dick, I am,” said Pratt, excitedly. “I wouldn’t have said a word if I had kept poor, but with my rising income—”

“And some one’s permission?”

“Bless her, yes; she says she hates me, and always shall, till her sister’s happy, but I may ask papa, so as to get rid of poor Flick and his persecutions. I believe the poor chap cares for her; but I can’t afford to let him have her, and make her miserable—eh, Dick?”

“Frank, old fellow, I wish you joy, and I’m glad of it, for she’s a dear little girl.”

“Oh, that don’t express it within a hundred,” said Pratt. “Dear little girl! That’s the smallest of small beer, while she’s the finest vintage of champagne. But, I say, Dick, old fellow, you’ve got to help me over this.”

“I? How?”

“She says she shall hate me till her sister’s happy; and, Dick, old fellow, there’s only one way of making Valentina Rea happy, and that you know. There—there—I’ve done. Don’t look at me like that. Fortune’s wheel keeps turning on: I shall be down in the mud again soon, and you cock-a-hoop on the top. Do you stick to your purpose of not going on to-night?”

“Yes, I shall go on in the morning from Plymouth, be present at the wedding, and then come away.”

“But you’ll go and see the old people? Dick, recollect Mrs Lloyd did all out of love and pride in her boy.”

“Yes, I have made up my mind to go and see them,” said Richard, quietly. “I’ll try and be a dutiful son.”

“And if I can manage it, you shall be a dutiful friend and brother-in-law too, my boy,” muttered Pratt, as he sank back in his seat, relit his pipe, and smoked in peace.

Plymouth platform was in a state of bustle on the arrival of the train. The friends had alighted from their coupé, inquired about the early morning train for Penzance, pointed out their light luggage toon obsequious porter, whose words buzzed with z’s, and were about to make their way to the great hotel, when Pratt’s attention was taken by a little grey, voluble old woman, very neatly and primly dressed in blue print, with a scarlet shawl, and a wonderful sugar-loaf beaver hat upon her head. She was in trouble about her railway ticket, two bundles tied up in blue handkerchiefs, and a large, green umbrella.

“I can’t find it, young man; I teclare to cootness, look you, I can’t find it.”

“Very sorry, ma’am,” said the ticket collector, who had followed her from the regular platform; “then you’ll have to pay from Bristol.”

“Put look you,” cried the old lady, “I tid pay once and cot the ticket, look you, and I put it somewhere to pe safe.”

“Have you searched all your pockets?” said Richard.

“Yes, young man,” said the old lady; “I’ve only cot one, look you—there!” and she dragged up her dress to display a great olive green pocket as big as a saddle-bag, out of which, after placing a bundle in Pratt’s hands and the umbrella in Richard’s to hold, she turned out a heterogeneous assortment of nutmegs, thimbles, reels of cotton, pieces of wax-candle, ginger, a bodkin case, pincushions, housewives, and, as the auctioneers say, other articles too numerous to mention.

“It don’t seem to be there,” said Richard, kindly.

“No, young man, it isn’t. I hunted it all over, look you, and I must have peen robbed.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m very sorry,” said the collector, “but you must pay again.”

“I teclare to cootness, young man, I can’t, and I won’t. I shall have no money to come pack.”

“Can’t help that,” said the collector, civilly enough. “I must do my duty, ma’am.”

“How much is it?” said Richard.

“From Bristol, third-class, sir, eight and tenpence.”

“Look you, young man, I shall pe ruined,” cried the old woman, tearfully.

“I’ll pay it,” said Richard, thrusting his hand into his pocket.

“You’re a tear, coot poy, pless you,” cried the old lady; and to the amusement of all on the platform, she went on tiptoe, reached up to Richard, and gave him a sounding kiss. “Pless you for it. Coot teeds are never thrown away.”

“I hope you are a witch, Mother Hubbard,” said Pratt, laughing. “Here’s your bundle. Don’t forget to do him a good turn.”

Richard took out the money, and the collector was about to write a receipt, when it suddenly occurred to the young man to open the umbrella, which he did with some difficulty, and the missing ticket fell out.

“There,” cried the old lady, joyfully, “I knew I put it somewhere to pe safe. Thank you, young man, and pless you all the same; for, look you, it was as coot a teed as if you had tone it.”

“Don’t say any more, mother,” said Richard, laughing. “Good-bye.”

A Quiet Wedding.

There was just time to snatch a hasty breakfast the next morning before starting for the station, and after a short journey they mounted into the dog-cart which Humphrey had sent to meet them. By comparing times, Pratt, who had taken all the management upon himself, found that he could execute a little plan he had been hatching; and when they neared Penreife, after a chat with the groom about the preparations, he proposed to Richard that they should alight, send the vehicle on, and take the short cut by the lanes.

“If you like,” said Richard, quietly; and the sadness that had seemed to hang over him more and more as they neared their journey’s end now half unmanned him.

“I thought you’d like better to walk up to the old place alone,” said Frank, “instead of having a third person with us.”

“Thank you, Frank, thank you,” said Richard, in a voice that was husky with emotion. “It was a mistake to come.”

“No, no, a kindness to Humphrey and me.”

“I—I—thought I could stand it better, and not behave like such a weak fool,” said Richard. “There, it’s over now. Let’s get through our task, so that I may go back.”

“You must wait for me, you know, Dick,” said Frank, cheerily. “There, cheer up, old man, it isn’t for ever and a day. Try and be hopeful, and put on a bright face before the wedding folks. It’s all going to be as quiet as possible—a couple of carriages to the church and back. Your old people will be there. Say a kind word to them—there, you know how to do it.”

“I’ll try and act like a man, Frank, hard as it will be. But you’ve set me a bitter task.”

“Then you shall have some sweet to take with it,” said Pratt to himself. Then aloud, “Ah, how nice this old lane looks. I never saw the ferns brighter or richer. How the sun shines through the trees. What a lovely morning, Dick! I say,” he gabbled on in a hasty way, “look at that tiny waterfall. What a change, Dick, from Fountain Court, Temple.”

“Why did you come this way?” groaned Richard, as he strove hard to fight down the emotion caused by the recollections that pervaded his memory.

That lane was hallowed to him: but a quarter of a mile farther was the old woman’s cottage where he had encountered the sisters; there was the place where he had walked one evening with Tiny; there—oh, there was a happy memory clinging to every tree and mossy block of granite; and but for the strong effort he made, he could have wandered out of the path, thrown himself down amongst the ferns, and cried like a child.

Meanwhile, Pratt chatted excitedly.

“Bless the dear old place. Why, Dick, that’s where I saw my little Fin looking so disdainfully at me, coming round the sharp turn there; and, look here, that’s my old perch, where I’ve had many a jolly pipe.”

He caught his friend suddenly by the arm, in a strangely-excited fashion, and turned him round, as he pointed to the grey, lichen-covered monolith of granite.

“Dick, old man, I could smoke a pipe there now, and sit and whistle like a bird. I say, Dick, how comical a fellow would look up there in his wig and gown, and—thank goodness!”

He said those last two words to himself with a sigh of relief, as, turning round, there, timed to a moment by his vile machinations and those of Fin, the sisters came, basket and fern trowel in hand, from amongst the trees, just as if time had been standing still, and no troubles had intervened.

To two of the party the surprise was complete. Richard stopped short, rigid and firm; while Tiny, as soon as her eyes rested upon him, turned pale, her basket fell to the ground, and uttering a faint cry of pain, she pressed her hand to her side and tottered back.

Conventional feelings, rigid determination, everything went down before nature then. With one bound Richard was at Tiny’s side, and the next moment, with a cry of joy, the poor girl’s arms were round his neck, and she was sobbing on his breast.

The probabilities are that had the insane behaviour of Frank Pratt been seen, he would have lost caste at the bar; for, dashing down his hat and an expensive meerschaum, which was shivered to atoms on the granite path, he executed a wild breakdown, brought his foot to the earth with a flop, and then rushed at Fin; but only to be disappointed, for she was clinging to and sobbing over Dick—that is, as far up as she could reach, crying—

“Oh, you dear, good darling, Dick—pray, pray don’t go on breaking her poor heart any more.”

“I say,” said Pratt, reproachfully, as Richard bent down and kissed the little maid, “what have I done? Ain’t I nobody?”

“Oh, go away now,” cried Fin, “There, you may have one, if nobody’s looking. Now, that will do;” and, after suffering a kiss, she returned it with a push.

“Time’s up, Dick, come. You shall see her again,” said Pratt, looking ruefully at his meerschaum scraps, as he dusted his hat. Then followed a little whispering with Pin, and he caught his friend’s arm, as his fellow-conspirator led her sister away.

“This is madness,” groaned Richard, as he yielded to his friend’s touch, and they walked rapidly away. “Oh, Franky, you contrived this.”

“To be sure I did,” said Pratt, grinning; “and you shall have another dose to cure you both, if you are good. But, quick; now, then, look a man. Here we are.”

Richard walked steadily up to the house, where he was pleased to find that all the servants’ faces were new. Humphrey met him at the door, and Mr and Mrs Lloyd were in the hall ready to approach timidly, as the young man gravely kissed the late housekeeper, and shook hands with Lloyd.

Polly was in the drawing-room, for it was to be a very homely, unconventional marriage; and she blushed warmly on encountering the former owner of the place.

“I wish you every happiness, my dear,” said Richard, to set her at ease; and he bent down and kissed her. “Humphrey has told me of your good little heart.”

“And you will listen to him, Mr Lloy—Trevor?” said the girl, mixing the two names together.

“Time to go,” said Humphrey; and he handed Polly, Mrs Lloyd, and her husband into the first carriage, which was kept back while he, Richard, and Pratt entered the other, and were driven off to the church.

In spite of the endeavours to keep the affair quiet, the little churchyard was crowded, and it was a harder trial for Richard even than he had expected, to hear the whisperings, and receive the friendly nods and bows from so many of those who knew him well.

But he bore it all in a calm, manly fashion; shook hands warmly with Mr Mervyn, who had come with a white favour in his button-hole; stood best man to Humphrey; and after little Polly, but a week before at school, had been given away by her uncle, and, the wedding over, the carriage had driven back with the bride and bridegroom, he took his place again quite calmly, shook hands with those who clustered round, and was driven away.

Everything went off well; and at the simple wedding breakfast, when called upon, Richard, in a very manly speech, wished health and happiness to the bride and bridegroom. Humphrey responded, broke down, tried again, broke down again, and then, leaving his place, crossed to where Richard sat, grasped his hand, and in a voice choking with emotion, exclaimed—

“Master Dick, I’m speaking for my wife as well as myself when I tell you that, if you wish us to be a happy couple, you must come back to your own.”

Richard rose, and returned the strong grasp; but before he could utter a word Pratt brought his hand down bang upon the table, exclaiming—

“Mother Hubbard, by Jove!”

Every face was directed at the door, where, standing, in her black hat and scarlet shawl, with her hands resting upon the horn handle of her umbrella, was the little grey old woman of Plymouth Station.

“It’s dear Aunt Price,” cried Polly, jumping up; and, regardless of her finery, she ran to the severe-looking old lady, hugged her affectionately, and then began to unpin her shawl, and take off her hat. “Oh, aunty, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“And are you married, look you?” said the old lady.

“Married, yes,” cried Humphrey, heartily; “we couldn’t wait, you know, or it would have been too late. Give’s your umbrella, and come and sit down. Why didn’t you come last night?”

“It was too far, my poy,” said the old lady; “and I was tired. It’s a long way, look you, from Caerwmlych, and I’m a very old woman now. Well, Lloyd—well, Chane, you’re both looking older than when I was here last, close upon thirty years ago, and nursed you through two illnesses.”

“We are quite well,” said Mrs Lloyd; “but didn’t expect you here.”

“P’r’abs not, p’r’abs not,” said the old lady; “put Polly here wrote to me to come, and I thought it was time, for she’s peen telling me strange news, look you.”

Lloyd shuffled in his chair, Mrs Lloyd was silent, and Richard’s brow knit as he glanced across the table at Pratt, while Humphrey busied himself in supplying the old lady’s plate.

“I cot Polly’s letter, look you, and I teclare to cootness, if I’d been tead and perried, I think I should have cot up and t come, look you. And so you’re married to Humphrey! Ah, well, he was a tisacreeable paby; but he’s grown, look you, into a fine lad, and I wish you poth choy.”

The old lady took a glass of wine and ate a little, and then grew more garrulous than ever, while no one else seemed disposed to speak.

“And I’m glad to see you again,” said the old lady, looking at Richard. “I tidn’t expect it when I left you at the railway place; and yet I seemed to know you again, look you. I felt I knew the face, and I teclare to cootness I couldn’t tell where I’d seen it, but I rememper now.”

“Come, aunt, darling,” said Polly, “make a good breakfast.”

“Tinner you mean, child,” said the old lady.

“Well, dinner, dear,” said Polly, “because I want a long talk with you before we go.”

“You’re coing away, then?”

“Yes, aunt, for a month; but you’ll stay till we come back?”

“Well, I ton’t know, look you,” said the old lady, sturdily. “Chane Lloyd and I never tid get on well together; but if Mr Richard Trevor there isn’t too prout to ask a poor old woman off the mountains—who nursed his poor mother, and tantled him in her arms when he was a paby—I teclare to cootness I will stay.”

A dead silence fell upon the group at the table. Humphrey seemed uncomfortable, Polly clung to his arm, Mrs Lloyd looked white and downcast, and her husband glanced at the door, and motioned a servant who was entering to retire.

Richard broke the silence, after giving a reassuring smile to Humphrey and his wife, by saying, gravely—

“I would ask you to stay with pleasure, Mrs Price, if I were master here, but you are mistaken. There sits Mr Humphrey Trevor; I am your own kith and kin, Richard Lloyd.”

“Chut!—chut!—chut!” exclaimed the old lady, starting up and speaking angrily, as she pointed at him with one finger. “Who ever saw a Lloyd or a Price with a nose like that? Ton’t tell me! You’re Mr Richard Trevor, your father’s son, and as much like him, look you, as two peas.”

The Lloyds rose, Mrs Lloyd looking like ashes as she clung to her husband’s arm; while Pratt left his place, and stood behind the chair of his friend.

“I’d forgotten all about it, look you,” said the old lady, prattling away, “till Polly wrote to me from her school; and then it all came back about Chane Lloyd and her paby, and her having the fever when her mistress died. Why, look you, tidn’t I go up to the nursery after peing town to see the funeral, and find Chane Lloyd hat peen up there, and put her paby in the young master’s cratle? and, look you, titn’t I go town to chite her, and find her all off her heat, and she was ill for weeks? I thought she’d tone it without knowing, or, peing wild-like, had liked to see her little one in the young master’s clothes. I put that all right again, and nursed poth pabies till she cot well. Lloyd—Trevor—tidn’t I see them poth as soon as they came into the worlt, and to you think I ton’t know them? Why, look at them!”

She turned to Pratt, who was nearest to her; but she cried out in alarm, for the little fellow had caught her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks, as he cried—

“It isn’t Mother Hubbard, Dick, but the good fairy out of the story-book. God bless you! old lady, for this. Here, Humphrey, see to your mother.”

But Humphrey was pumping away at both Richard Trevor’s arms, as he cried, excitedly—

“Hooray! Master Dick. I never felt so happy in my life. Polly, lass, we shall get the cottage after all.”

He saw the next moment, though, that Mrs Lloyd had fainted dead away; and his were the arms that carried her to her bedroom, while Polly crept to the old Welshwoman’s side.

“I came, look you, Master Richard, to put all this right,” said the old lady. “Putt it was all nonsense, I teclare to cootness. Anypody might have seen.”

“I—I thank you—I’m contused—dazed, rather,” said Trevor, looking from one to the other. “Polly, my poor girl, I’ll try to make up to you for this disappointment.”

“I’m not disappointed, please, Mr Richard, sir,” said Mrs Humphrey, bobbing a curtsey, and then trying a boarding-school salute and failing, and blushing terribly.

“I’m very happy indeed, and I’m sure Humphrey is—he said so, and he always tells the truth. And if you please, sir, aunt and I will go now into the housekeeper’s room.”

“That you won’t, if I have any influence with some one here,” said Pratt. “No, my pretty little wife; you and your brick of a husband shall go off in triumph; and oh, by Jove! here’s the present I brought down for you.”

Frank Pratt’s present was a handsome ring, and he was placing it above the plain one already on her finger, when Humphrey came back.

“She’s all right again,” he said, huskily. “I was obliged to come away, for she wanted to go on her knees—and I couldn’t stand it. Polly—Aunt Price—she wants you both. Master Dick, sir, isn’t this a day?”

Conclusion.

Everybody said, as a matter of course, afterwards, that the whole affair was perfectly absurd, and that anybody could see with half an eye that Humphrey was not a Trevor. All the same, though, he had been accepted for many months as the owner of the estate.

The young couple went off on their wedding trip, for Mrs Lloyd’s illness was of only a transitory nature; and soon after the carriage had taken them to the station, the old housekeeper sent a message to Trevor, asking leave to see him.

What took place at that interview Richard Trevor never said; but the result was that a couple of hours after she and her husband had left the place, having refused Trevor’s offer to let them stay, though living on his bounty to the end.

In writing, it needs but a stroke of the pen to carry the reader now to a year ago or the reverse; so let us say that a year has elapsed, and there is once more a dinner-party at Penreife, where there are visitors staying. It is to meet them that Sir Hampton and Lady Rea are coming from Tolcarne. One of the visitors is with her sister beneath one of the shady trees on the lawn; and the other, a little solemn-looking man, her husband, has been making a tour of the place with Richard Trevor.

They stopped at the pretty keeper’s lodge, with its little farm, to drink new milk, tempered from a flask, offered in glasses by pretty Mrs Humphrey Lloyd, who looked wonderfully important with the new baby. Then they visited the stables, where an old friend was enjoying a pipe after seeing to the comforts of the horses; for Sam Jenkles, when poor Ratty was obstinate for the last time, and insisted upon dying of old age in the road instead of at peace in the stables, gladly accepted the offer made to him to take the superintendence of the little stud at Penreife; while his wife lived in one of the prettiest cottages on the estate, and was always busy at the house during company times.

Sam’s news when he came down was that Mrs Fiddison had changed her name, having been proposed to by a widower who fancied she was one of the bereaved; also that one Barney had got into some little difficulty with the police, and had gone abroad for change of air.

On returning to the house for dressing, the ladies were already prepared, and the gentlemen had only time to hurry on their things before there was a loud “Er-rum” in the hall, and Sir Hampton Rea was ready to button-hole his sons-in-law, telling the Cornish one that the new greenhouse was a great success, and that Sanders should come over the next day to see the wistaria.

As for Lady Rea, she was being heartily kissed, every kiss budding into a smile on her pleasant face, till Tiny made the discovery that the plump, affectionate little dame was coming undone, when she had her whisked away and pinned, volubly telling her daughter the while that Pepine was so ill, Aunt Matty had not the heart to come.

At eleven precisely the last “Er-rum” is heard in the hall, and peace—truly a blessed peace—falls on the pleasant Cornish home.

Three months after we have the return visit, Richard Trevor and Valentina, his wife, being up at Frank Pratt’s old-fashioned house at Highgate, where the only trouble happy little Fin can complain of is that Frank is so bunted by the solicitors that he has no peace. Fin has quite made up her mind that he will be Lord Chancellor; but Frank thinks it more than doubtful, and is very fond of teasing his wife, his great coup being to tell her that she asked him to marry her at last.

There is a quiet, grave look in the faces of Richard and his wife, for they have paid two visits that day—one to the living, one to the dead.

Mrs Vanleigh is living in a pleasant little cottage in a Highgate lane, and from her they learn that Sir Felix Landells marries the daughter of an earl in a few weeks; also that Captain, now Major, Vanleigh is still in India, where he is likely to stay; but that he writes regularly to his neglected wife, and has devoted himself heart and soul to his profession.

The visit to the dead was made in Highgate Cemetery, where there is a neat little railing round a grave—green in summer, purple in spring with violets; and as husband and wife stand hand in hand there, the tears of the latter fall fast, while his eyes are blurred and misty as he pictures the past, and seems to see the slight, fragile form slowly wasting day by day, till once more, for the thousandth time, he conjures up the dimly-lit room, and the solemn scene wherein he was an actor. He knows that the long, dark tress of hair lies upon his wife’s bosom; and he knows, too, that in her gentle heart there is no tinge of jealous feeling, or want of faith; for as he raises his head with a muttered “God rest her!” he meets the loving look of a sweet, trusting pair of eyes. Lastly, they gaze together at the simple headstone, but his are even now too blurred to read the simple inscription—“Netta.”

The End.