CONCLUSION.
Eight months after all this, it was in the drawing-room of Laurel
Lodge that those whose adventures we have traced so far were all
waiting for the boom of the dinner-gong, for it was the evening of
Ethel's birthday; and she had been a bride four months, while Rose
had been wedded but a few weeks--so both were all smiles, white lace,
and loveliness.
All that day the familiar chimes of Acton-Rennel (which had rung in
honour of their return) had jangled merrily in the square Norman
tower, sending their notes over the chase, the mere, the long green
English lanes, and kindling joy in many a worthy heart that loved the
Bassets, and who now, in home-brewed brown October, drank deep to
their healths, and welcome home!
Many of "Papa's household gods," as Ethel named them, which had been
bought by old friends, found their way back again to Laurel Lodge.
"Mamma's" picture hung in the usual place--even on its old nails; and
Rose's azaleas still bloomed in the conservatory, as on the night
when Hawkshaw laughed at them.
Morley and Ethel occupied her old room, and often, when she drew the
curtains, she thought of that terrible morning when she looked up to
Acton Chine and thought a darkness had fallen on the outer world.
How difficult to realise all that had passed since then!
There was present the old rector (papa's friend); he had read the
last service for Ethel's mamma, and who preached the sermon prior to
their departure; and there, too, were Lucy Page and her brother Jack,
who looked not a whit the worse for being jilted by Rose, as all the
folks in the village say he was, for the rector's black-eyed daughter
has undertaken to console him, while Lucy leans with pleasant
confidence on the arm of the young fox-hunting squire of Cherrywood
Hill, in out-door sports the rival of Jack, who is a first-class
shot, and scores with ease his ninety odd points among the members of
the 1st A.R.R.R.V.C., which mysterious letters mean the Acton-Rennel
Royal Rifle Volunteer Corps, a distinguished body of men, which our
friend Morley has since joined.
The squire of Acton-Rennel had come over in his old lumbering coach,
and sat as of yore in a cosy easy-chair, opposite Mr. Basset, whose
hair has become rather gray, for he has been much aged by all he has
undergone, though carefully tended by his daughters, by Morley and
Heriot (who, though quite independent, is rapidly acquiring a
splendid country practice at Acton-Kennel), and by old Nance Folgate,
whose voyaging she believes to exceed in marvel all that ever was
recorded by Sir John Mandeville or old Richard Hakluyt.
Bluff Captain Phillips (who is about to persuade the plump little
widow of Gravesend to change her name to his) was there too, and his
presence made them regret the absence of honest Morrison, who had
gone home to Scotland, and of jovial Tom Bartelot, who was in London,
it was whispered, with certain matrimonial views upon the girl of the
Hampton Court memories, in which he indulged when on the wreck, and
which views, we hope, he may realise ere long.
Noah Gawthrop, who was then, as he would have phrased it, "a brilin'
aboard the _Clyde_," in the Indian Seas, was not forgotten when the
cloth was removed after dinner; and we believe he will yet cast
anchor in charge of the gate lodge, with its heraldic unicorns, and
may yet teach a little Morley Ashton to handle an oar in the skiff on
Acton mere, and may become in the bar of the "Basset Arms" a great
oracle upon all that appertaineth unto salt water.
On this evening they were all very happy and merry, and the jolly
rector, in proposing Ethel's health and prosperity, declared that Mr.
Basset's daughters were alike improved in quality and tint, for
having been--like good Madeira--twice round the Cape, a species of
compliment which the two squires laughed at uproariously, so the
hearty good-humour and merriment waxed apace.
"How unlike the past!" thought Morley, as he glanced at his beautiful
young wife in diamonds and lace; "here, indeed, 'the world seems a
good one to live in, and easy to get on with!'"
Morley felt half as in a dream.
It was the last day of October, the sun's declining rays were gilding
the shamble-oak, and his brethren of the old Saxon chase, the tower
of the village church, and the rocks of the chine. (You remember
them, reader? If you don't, we rather think Mr. Ashton does.) A sky
of clouds that were white, broken, and dappled, edged with gold, and
floating in amber, was over all. Fragrance and verdure, fertility
and vegetable life, that they may bud and bloom in all their strength
in spring, were going to sleep for the winter in the coppice and on
the uplands.
The nearly-stripped woodlands loomed darkly out of the golden evening
haze, and the glorious sun, as he sank, while the village chimes rang
out, made Morley feel somehow happy, charitable, and kind to the
world in general. And so he thought, as he glanced from Ethel, who
was now singing at the piano one of her old familiar songs to Rose,
who, though a wedded wife, was seated on a hassock near her father's
knee, which had always been her place after dinner, since she cut her
first pearly teeth and drank milk out of the sponsorial silver mug,
given her by old Mr. Page, Jack's father.
She was rollicking, as of old, with Lucy, a charming specimen of a
frank-hearted, fresh-complexioned country girl, and teasing her
brother Jack, a young Englishman complete, ruddy-cheeked, with a
smart moustache, long whiskers, and a head of close curly brown hair.
Though the prime bowler of the Acton eleven, the crack shot of the
Acton Corps, a fellow who could run, leap, or shoot even with a
Highlandman, the good wine he had drunk loosed his tongue, and, as
Morley and he promenaded in the avenue, he told him rather
mysteriously, between the puffs of Latakia, which rose from his
meerschaum, that he "had been jilted by Rose chiefly because he was a
thundering bad dancer, and never knew a note of music in his life."
But Jack, we have said, was likely to find consolation.
Though leaving them all happy in their old English home, we feel
loath alike to part with them and with the reader, who has
accompanied us so far; but we leave them all, we hope, with health,
wealth, and young life before them.
The sun has set, and the Acton bells have ceased, so part we must,
though, perhaps, for a time.
THE END.
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
End of Project Gutenberg's Morley Ashton, Volume 3 (of 3), by James Grant