_THE END_.
Roderick Brown's health rapidly improved under the milder and more
genial airs of Devon. The threatening symptoms of impending disease
were speedily mitigated, and gradually disappeared altogether. Torquay
was but a quiet little place in those days. The carriages filled with
much dressed company, and the depressing trains of hopelessly sick and
dying, were not as yet. He and his sister could go in and out as
inclination led them, and wander little disturbed by other sojourners
along the shore.
Roderick revelled in the ease and repose that comes of the cessation
of long continued worry. He knew that there he could go, and say, and
do as he listed, with none to criticise; and for once after several
years he found himself with nothing whatever to do but amuse himself.
He had frequent letters from the Laird, which told him all the news he
cared to know of Glen Effick, whose dust he vowed to himself he had
shaken from his feet for ever. The beadle's appearance at church
in the new character of married man had overturned and shivered to
pieces the whole fabric of scandal under which he had lain, and the
old gentleman grew quite humorous over the consternation and
recriminations of his brother elders in Session assembled. A scapegoat
had at first appeared necessary to these wiseacres, and poor Joseph
was selected as the victim on whom they might lay the punishment of
their stupid credulity, sending it and him forth into the wilderness
to be no more heard of or remembered; and it had taken all the Laird's
and the new minister's eloquence and influence to dissuade them from
their vindictive intentions, and let the poor wretch work out in peace
the heavy domestic retribution he had brought upon himself. 'I might
say,' he added, 'that we all congratulate you; but you know we never
supposed that there was anything in it, and we only regretted that you
should have taken a nonsensical accusation so seriously to heart.'
'We all' Roderick understood to be the old gentleman's way of
including Sophia with himself, and he was greatly cheered. He kept up
a constant correspondence with the Laird himself, and took care that
Mary's letterwriting to Sophia should never flag, so that he felt by
no means cut off from her. He might have adventured a letter to her
himself now, with far greater hope than he had felt on a previous
occasion, but he had begun to doubt and wonder as to his own future
plans in life, and he misgave as to his moral right to commit another
to the hazy uncertainties he begun to see before him. His utter
outrooting from Glen Effick was not a process which could take place
without leaving changes and permanent effects on his whole nature. It
was no mere transplanting-process, in which the fibres retain some
clod of the old for stay and nourishment until they are able to spread
themselves and take hold on the new soil. His clerical brethren had
treated him as a diseased and withered branch, a weed to be plucked up
by the root and cast out of the vineyard; and finding himself thus out
for the moment, he was minded to look well about him before he
returned.
In England he came for the first time in contact with a national
church differing from his own, and to which the traditions and
prejudices of his early training were opposed. The written prayers,
rubrical directions, and instrumental music, were all opposed to his
experience and prepossessions, so much that, in a sense, and apart
from controversial considerations, Prelacy and Popery had appeared as
nearly convertible terms. But as the novelty wore off there was much
in them conducive to devout feeling, and he could not close his eyes
to the signal and thousandfold examples of holy living which
flourished under the system. The extension of railways has assisted to
bring similar suggestions to many of his fellow countrymen. Roderick
began to realize what, perhaps, he would only have admitted in a
speculative but doubtful way before, that there are more folds than
one; or, to speak more orthodoxly, that the limits of the one fold are
not conterminous with those of one special pen in which some portion
of the faithful flock have chosen to house themselves. He began to
read more foreign theology than had been his wont, and with less of
his old feeling that he knew more and better than any dweller in lands
of a dimmer Gospel light could possibly tell him.
Mary, of course, was not long in hearing from Kenneth that baby Steele
had been reclaimed by its new found family, and the delighted father
wrote her a letter overflowing with gratitude. He told her that he had
persuaded Eppie, who understood her constitution so wonderfully, to
remain in charge of his little Mary, and assured her that she should
be brought up to remember for life the debt of gratitude she owed to
her name-mother's charity. Mary cried a little to think that she had
lost her winsome plaything, but admitted it was perhaps just as well.
Lady Caroline might not have relished an infant in the house, not of
her kindred, and belonging to none knew whom.
In March came the county _Courier_, describing the marriage in high
life at Inchbracken, 'Augustus Wallowby, Esquire, to the beautiful and
accomplished,' etc., with all the great doings and high festival kept
on the occasion. This was especially welcome news to Mary. She had
known of it from the beginning, but she had feared something might
happen to delay or break it off; the attachment seemed so unreal, to
judge from Kenneth's cynical observations made on the spot. Her
acquaintance with Julia had been slight, and she felt as if they did
not like each other, though she could not have said why. Julia had
always been quite civil, but Mary knew this, that she did not
understand her (Julia) in the very least, Inchbracken was going to
become her own home in the coming autumn, and she had feared that the
presence of Julia would not be conducive to her happy relations with
her mother-in-law. But that was settled, and Mary received an
occasional billet from Lady Caroline, who felt lonely and dull now
that she was deprived of Julia's companionship, and whose thoughts
naturally turned to the coming daughter-in-law.
Roderick and Mary broke up their winter quarters soon after hearing of
Julia's marriage. They had no occasion to move northward before May or
June, but having as yet seen little of England, they determined to
move along the south coast by easy stages, stopping at famous towns on
their way, and seeing all that they could--Exeter, Dorchester,
Winchester, Portsmouth, the Isle of Wight, Canterbury, and finally
Dover. They were sorely tempted to cross the straits, but it was now
May, and if they were to see London, it was time for them to hurry
thither, for they were due in Edinburgh at the end of the month.
They strolled down the pier to watch the steamer come in, and had the
consolation of seeing by the forlorn aspect of the landing passengers,
that their inability to cross was not an unmixed evil. The wind blew
from the east, and the confused chopping waves betokened a detestable
passage, and the seagreen visages of the people, as they followed
their baggage into the customhouse sheds, showed plainly what they had
suffered. In time there issued from the sheds a party, the chief
members of which struck them as familiar, though they could not recall
when they had seen them. A lady, whose long ringlets had somewhat lost
their curl in the damp sea air, but who did not appear to be otherwise
discomposed, walked first; a courier came next carrying her reticule,
her Murray, and her smelling bottle; a gentleman followed, dismal of
countenance and rumpled in attire. Manifestly he had not been happy
during the voyage, and he appeared to have lain down or leant up in
undesirable places. It appeared an exertion to him to drag himself to
the neighbouring 'Lord Warden,' whither their steps were bent, and yet
he had other burdens to carry. On one arm hung a voluminous fur
cloak,--evidently a lady's,--and he had also a parasol. Clutched to
his side under the other arm was a French poodle, caught below the
shoulders, with its after-part dangling helpless like a hairy
caterpillar about his legs. It appeared to be in much discomfort,
blinked piteously, and would have yelped and bitten also, but that the
breath was squeezed out of its body by the elbow which kept it in
place. A maid followed with a vast bundle of shawls, and then came a
man with a folding stool, who lingered to watch the baggage being
conveyed to the hotel.
'Adolphe!' said the lady to the courier, 'go and bid Mr. Wallowby take
better care of that poor Fidele. I _know_ he is handling the tender
darling roughly! Men are so coarse and indifferent. I am _sure_ I
heard a whimper!'
The delivery of Adolphe's message was followed by a shrill yelp, cut
short in the middle by want of breath, as its aggravated bearer bent
in a few more of its ribs with a jerk of his elbow, and wished it in
the sea. The lady stopped in her saunter and turned round.
'Augustus!' she said in a severe and injured tone, 'Had you not better
wait till you get indoors, before giving way to your disgusting
brutality of temper? The servants cannot possibly admire the
exhibition.'
At this moment she descried the Browns, and her face cleared as she
approached them with cordial alacrity.
'Oh, Miss Brown! or Mary you must allow me to call you, we are so soon
to be cousins you know. So nice to meet old friends on setting foot in
dear Old England once more!' She was as enthusiastic over her return
as if she had been abroad for years; but then she knew Mary had never
crossed the Channel, and this was the civillest way to remind her of
it.
Mary returned her salutation with as much effusion as she could call
up, and then turned to greet Mr. Wallowby who stood a step behind,
like the attendant of a princess on the stage. He could only bow
himself, with a weakly smile to his encumbered hands and arms, for
there was a vicious twitch about Fidele's mouth and eye, which warned
him that any relaxation of watchfulness or elbow would be followed by
a snap or perhaps an ugly bite.
'Ah! To be sure you know each other! I had forgotten that. Met at
Auchlippie last summer, of course. It was there _we_ met first, too,
by the way, in our days of young love and inexperience. How long ago
it all seems now! And how droll! Does it not, Wallowby?'
'Very droll,' returned the husband in a dull and absent voice, as if
he might have added, 'And very wretched, too,' but had still so much
self-respect as kept him from parading his disappointment.
He had tasted more of gall than sweetness during his honeymoon, and
had found himself matched to so expert a manager that it was harder to
struggle than submit; and he had meekly subsided into poodle-bearer
and banker before the honeymoon was half gone through. Julia made no
pretence of admiring him now, and this was so strange an experience
that he worshipped her for her superiority, and probably loved her in
some weak and querulous fashion. Do not people love and reverence all
the queer idols they set up, if only they are strong and heavy enough
to crush their worshippers? But Julia would have none of his
endearments or devotion. They bored, and after a few days did not even
amuse her. Adolphe the courier spoke French and Italian, and she
practised herself in those tongues under his direction, which was
better than talking vapid sentiment with her husband; and so long as
their expenditure was liberal, there were plenty of talkative
foreigners--counts--princes--all sorts of interesting creatures to be
had, who conversed delightfully, and were so romantic, realizing to
her mind some of the most charming passages in the French novels she
doted on. Thus Julia enjoyed her tour immensely, and was returning
home in the best of good humour, prepared to queen it over the Misses
Kettlebotham and all the people who should come within her circle.
Roderick stood in the back-ground. A distant bow was all the
recognition he either expected or received from the lady, and when
they moved on he followed with Wallowby. He offered to relieve him of
some of his burdens, but the poor man declined--he clung to his
service as the only hold left him on the woman he had married--though
he did wish that something would happen to Fidele; that its morning
cream, for instance, would disagree with its liver, and that it might
shortly die.
The Browns parted with their friends at the hotel door, and hastened
to London, whence in due time they returned to Scotland.
There is little to record in what afterwards befell them. Like
those fortunate nations which have little or no history, their lives
were happy, monotonous to the onlooker, but full of various and
engrossing interest to themselves. Mary returned to Inchbracken as
daughter-in-law in the autumn, and Lady Caroline speedily ceased to
regret that her son had not made a more splendid alliance.
Roderick met the Laird and his family in Edinburgh, where the Laird
was a delegate from his Presbytery to the General Assembly, and before
the young man well knew it, he had said all that was in his mind both
to Sophia and her father. He spent two years in Germany to the no
small anxiety of Mrs. Sangster, who felt certain that his principles
would be sapped, and that he would come back a rationalist, or imbued
with peculiar German views, whatever that may mean. But on his return
he was called to an influential city charge, and duly married,
realizing in the end the original hopes of that worthy but somewhat
mixed old lady for the wellbeing of her daughter--a comfortable
provision for this life, and the glorious certainties of a minister's
wife for that which is to come.
Roderick has preached and published many remarkable sermons; he is
highly respected for personal piety; and as his lucky star has more
than once interposed to prevent his being made a professor, there is
every likelihood that he will live to a good old age in peace,
contentment, and universal esteem.
THE END.