Kitabı oku: «Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One», sayfa 22
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.”
