CURTAIN.
Striking incidents will draw the writer; but we know that our readers
would rather hear about the characters they can respect. It seems,
however, to be a rule in life, and in fiction, that interest flags when
trouble ceases. Now the troubles of our good people were pretty well
over, and we will put it to the reader whether they had not enough.
Grace Clifford made an earnest request to Colonel Clifford and her father
never to tell Walter he had been suspected of bigamy. "Let others say
that circumstances are always to be believed and character not to be
trusted; but I, at least, had no right to believe certificates and things
against my Walter's honor and his love. Hide my fault from him, not for
my sake but for his; perhaps when we are both old people I may tell him."
This was Grace Clifford's petition, and need we say she prevailed?
Walter Clifford recovered under his wife's care, and the house was so
large that Colonel Clifford easily persuaded his son and daughter-in-law
to make it their home. Hope had also two rooms in it, and came there when
he chose; he was always welcome; but he was alone again, so to speak,
and not quite forty years of age, and he was ambitious. He began to rise
in the world, whilst our younger characters, contented with their
happiness and position, remained stationary. Master of a great mine, able
now to carry out his invention, member of several scientific
associations, a writer for the scientific press, etc., he soon became a
public and eminent man; he was consulted on great public works, and if he
lives will be one of the great lights of science in this island. He is
great on electricity, especially on the application of natural forces to
the lighting of towns. He denounces all the cities that allow powerful
streams to run past them and not work a single electric light. But he
goes further than that. He ridicules the idea that it is beyond the
resources of science to utilize thousands of millions of tons of water
that are raised twenty-one feet twice in every twenty-four hours by the
tides. It is the skill to apply the force that is needed; not the force
itself, which exceeds that of all the steam-engines in the nation. And he
says that the great scientific foible of the day is the neglect of
natural forces, which are cheap and inexhaustible, and the mania for
steam-engines and gas, which are expensive, and for coal, which is not to
last forever. He implores capital and science to work in this question.
His various schemes for using the tides in the creation of motive power
will doubtless come before the world in a more appropriate channel than a
work of fiction. If he succeeds it will be a glorious, as it must be a
difficult, achievement.
His society is valued on social grounds; his well-stored mind, his powers
of conversation, and his fine appearance, make him extremely welcome at
all the tables in the county; he also accompanies his daughter with the
violin, and, as they play beauties together, not difficulties, they
ravish the soul and interrupt the torture, whose instrument the
piano-forte generally is.
Bartley is a man with beautiful silvery hair and beard; he cultivates,
nurses, and tends fruit-trees and flowers with a love little short of
paternal. This sentiment, and the contemplation of nature, have changed
the whole expression of his face; it is wonderfully benevolent and sweet,
but with a touch of weakness about the lips. Some of the rough fellows
about the place call him a "softy," but that is much too strong a word;
no doubt he is confused in his ideas, but he reads all the great American
publications about fruit and flowers, and executes their instructions
with tact and skill. Where he breaks down--and who would believe
this?--is in the trade department. Let him succeed in growing apple-trees
and pear-trees weighed down to the ground with choice fruit; let him
produce enormous cherries by grafting, and gigantic nectarines upon his
sunny wall, and acres of strawberries too large for the mouth. After that
they may all rot where they grow; he troubles his head no more. This is
more than his old friend Hope can stand; he interferes, and sends the
fruit to market, and fills great casks with superlative cider and perry,
and keeps the account square, with a little help from Mrs. Easton, who
has returned to her old master, and is a firm but kind mother to him.
Grace Clifford for some time could not be got to visit him. Perhaps she
is one of those ladies who can not get over personal violence; he had
handled her roughly, to keep her from going to her father's help. After
all, there may have been other reasons; it is not so easy to penetrate
all the recesses of the female heart. One thing is certain: she would
not go near him for months; but when she did go with her father--and he
had to use all his influence to take her there--the rapture and the
tears of joy with which the poor old fellow received her disarmed her
in a moment.
She let him take her through hot-houses and show her his children--"the
only children I have now," said he--and after that she never refused to
visit this erring man. His roof had sheltered her many years, and he had
found out too late that he loved her, so far as his nature could love at
that time.
* * * * *
Percy Fitzroy had an elder sister. He appealed to her against Julia
Clifford. She cross-questioned him, and told him he was very foolish to
despair. She would hardly have slapped him if she was quite resolved to
part forever.
"Let me have a hand in reconciling you," said she.
"You shall have b-b-both hands in it, if you like," said he; "for I am at
my w-w-wit's end."
So these two conspired. Miss Fitzroy was invited to Percy's house, and
played the mistress. She asked other young ladies, especially that fair
girl with auburn hair, whom Julia called a "fat thing." That meant, under
the circumstances, a plump and rounded model, with small hands and feet;
a perfect figure in a riding habit, and at night a satin bust and
sculptured arms.
The very first ride Walter took with Grace and Julia they met the bright
cavalcade of Percy and his sister, and this red-haired Venus.
Percy took off his hat with profound respect to Julia and Grace, but did
not presume to speak.
"What a lovely girl!" said Grace.
"Do you think so?" said Julia.
"Yes, dear; and so do you."
"What makes you fancy that?"
"Because you looked daggers at her."
"Because she is setting her cap at that little fool."
"She will not have him without your consent, dear."
And this set Julia thinking.
The next day Walter called on Percy, and played the traitor.
"Give a ball," said he.
Miss Fitzroy and her brother gave a ball. Percy, duly instructed by his
sister, wrote to Julia as meek as Moses, and said he was in a great
difficulty. If he invited her, it would, of course, seem presumptuous,
considering the poor opinion she had of him; if he passed her over, and
invited Walter Clifford and Mrs. Clifford, he should be unjust to his own
feelings, and seem disrespectful.
Julia's reply:
"DEAR MR. FITZROY,--I am not at all fond of jealousy, but I am very fond
of dancing. I shall come.
"Yours sincerely,
"JULIA CLIFFORD."
And she did come with a vengeance. She showed them what a dark beauty can
do in a blaze of light with a red rose, and a few thousand pounds' worth
of diamonds artfully placed.
She danced with several partners, and took Percy in his turn. She was
gracious to him, but nothing more.
Percy asked leave to call next day.
She assented, rather coldly.
His sister prepared Percy for the call. The first thing he did was to
stammer intolerably.
"Oh," said Julia, "if you have nothing more to say than that, I
have--Where is my bracelet?"
"It's here," said Percy, producing it eagerly. Julia smiled.
"My necklace?"
"Here!"
"My charms?"
"Here!"
"My specimens of your spelling? Love spells, eh?"
"Here--all here."
"No, they are not," said Julia, snatching them, "they are here." And she
stuffed both her pockets with them.
"And the engaged ring," said Percy, radiant now, and producing it,
"d-d-don't forget that."
Julia began to hesitate. "If I put that on, it will be for life."
"Yes, it will," said Percy.
"Then give me a moment to think."
After due consideration she said what she had made up her mind to say
long before.
"Percy, you're a man of honor. I'll be yours upon one solemn
condition--that from this hour till death parts us, you promise to give
your faith where you give your love."
"I'll give my faith where I give my love," said Percy, solemnly.
Next month they were married, and he gave his confidence where he gave
his love, and he never had reason to regret it.
* * * * *
"John Baker."
"Sir."
"You had better mind what you are about, or you'll get fonder of her than
of Walter himself."
"Never, Colonel, never! And so will you."
Then, after a moment's reflection, John Baker inquired how they were to
help it. "Look here, Colonel," said he, "a man's a man, but a woman's a
woman. It isn't likely as Master Walter will always be putting his hand
round your neck and kissing of you when you're good, and pick a white
hair off your coat if he do but see one when you're going out, and shine
upon you in-doors more than the sun does on you out-of-doors; and 'taint
to be supposed as Mr. Walter will never meet me on the stairs without
breaking out into a smile to cheer an old fellow's heart, and showing
£2000 worth of ivory all at one time; and if I've a cold or a bit of a
headache he won't send his lady's maid to see after me and tell me what I
am to do, and threaten to come and nurse me himself if I don't mend."
"Well," said the Colonel, "there's something in all this."
"For all that," said John Baker, candidly, "I shall make you my
confession, sir. I said to Mr. Walter myself, said I, 'Here's a pretty
business,' said I; 'I've known and loved you from a child, and Mrs.
Walter has only been here six months, and now I'm afraid she'll make me
love her more than I do you.'"
"Why, of course she will," said Mr. Walter. "Why, _I_ love her
better than I do myself, and you've got to follow suit, or else I'll
murder you."
So that question was settled.
* * * * *
The five hundred guineas reward rankled in the minds of those detectives,
and, after a few months, with the assistance of the ordinary police in
all the northern towns, they got upon a cold scent, and then upon a warm
scent, and at last they suspected their bird, under the _alias_ of
Carruthers. So they came to the house to get sight of him, and make sure
before applying for a warrant. They got there just in time for his
funeral. Middleton was there and saw them, and asked them to attend it,
and to speak to him after the reading of the will.
"Proceedings are stayed," said he; "but, perhaps, having acted
against me, you might like to see whether it would not pay better to
act with me."
"And no mistake," said one of them; so they were feasted with the rest,
for it was a magnificent funeral, and after that Middleton squared them
with £50 apiece to hold their tongues--and more, to divert all suspicion
from the house and the beautiful woman who now held it as only trustee
for her son.
Remembering that he had left the estate to another man's child, Monckton,
one fine day, bequeathed his personal estate on half a sheet of
note-paper to Lucy. This and the large allowance Middleton obtained from
the Court for her, as trustee and guardian to the heir, made her a rich
woman. She was a German, sober, notable, and provident; she kept her
sheep, and became a sort of squire. She wrote to her husband in the
States, and, by the advice of Middleton, told him the exact truth instead
of a pack of fibs, which she certainly would have done had she been left
to herself. Poverty had pinched Jonathan Braham by this time; and as he
saw by the tone of her letter she did not care one straw whether he
accepted the situation or not, he accepted it eagerly, and had to court
her as a stranger, and to marry her, and wear the crown matrimonial; for
Middleton drew the settlements, and neither Braham nor his creditors
could touch a half-penny. And then came out the better part of this
indifferent woman. Braham had been a good friend to her in time of need,
and she was a good and faithful friend to him now. She was generally
admired and respected; kind to the poor; bountiful, but not lavish; an
excellent manager, but not stingy.
In vain shall we endeavor, with our small insight into the bosoms of men
and women, to divide them into the good and the bad. There are mediocre
intellects; there are mediocre morals. This woman was always more
inclined to good than evil, yet at times temptation conquered. She was
virtuous till she succumbed to a seducer whom she loved. Under his
control she deceived Walter Clifford, and attempted an act of downright
villainy; that control removed, she returned to virtuous and industrious
habits. After many years, solitude, weariness, and a gloomy future
unhinged her conscience again: comfort and affection offered themselves,
and she committed bigamy. Deserted by Braham, and once more fascinated by
the only man she had ever greatly loved, she joined him in an abominable
fraud, broke down in the middle of it by a sudden impulse of conscience,
and soon after settled down into a faithful nurse. She is now a faithful
wife, a tender mother, a kind mistress, and nearly everything that is
good in a medium way; and so, in all human probability, will pass the
remainder of her days, which, as she is healthy, and sober in eating and
drinking, will perhaps be the longer period of her little life.
Well may we all pray against great temptations; only choice spirits
resist them, except when they are great temptations to somebody else, and
somehow not to the person tempted.
It has lately been objected to the writers of fiction--especially to
those few who are dramatists as well as novelists--that they neglect
what Shakespeare calls "the middle of humanity," and deal in eccentric
characters above or below the people one really meets. Let those who
are serious in this objection enjoy moral mediocrity in the person of
Lucy Monckton.
For our part we will never place Fiction, which was the parent of
History, below its child. Our hearts are with those superior men and
women who, whether in History or Fiction, make life beautiful, and
raise the standard of Humanity. Such characters exist even in this
plain tale, and it is these alone, and our kindly readers, we take
leave of with regret.
THE END.