CLOSING WORDS.
THERE is very little more to tell about Ronald and myself; the eventful
period of our lives lasted only a short time, and ended with the
finding of Inez Greystock's legacy.
The diamonds were sold for a sum so large that it ensured us a fair
competence for the rest of our days. And then, too, as the company
flourished, Ronald's salary increased, and we soon found ourselves in a
very comfortable position.
We did not leave our rooms in Chapel Place until the winter was past
and the spring had fairly set in; and then we moved into a pretty
little villa at Kensington.
It was not long before nurse gave up letting lodgings, and came to live
with us. Her husband died soon after our removal, and she was left
alone in the world. It was, therefore, the most natural thing that she
should take up her abode in our home; and at this present time she
domineers over my babies as she once domineered over me. Nothing can be
successfully arranged without her helping hands; and in all our little
difficulties and ailments she proves herself to be devoted to our
interests.
In these days of eye-service, our friends are inclined to covet our
faithful old servant; and we, on our side, repay her zeal with the
heartiest affection and kindness.
Lady Waterville, now a very old woman, still lives in the house in
George Street, and our frequent visits are her greatest pleasure. Mr.
Drury comes up twice a year from his pleasant rectory in the country,
and occupies a spare room in the Kensington villa—a room which is
always ready for his use. I can never forget that he took me in and
sheltered me in my need and sickness, and my husband owes him an
eternal debt of gratitude.
Our favourite friend, Marian, will soon cease to be Miss Bailey, and
a few weeks will find her settled in a villa close to ours. After
refusing several offers, she finally resigned her heart to one of
Ronald's friends, a clever barrister, who fell so desperately in love
with her that there was no resisting him. My husband says that he is
one of the most fortunate of men to have won so sweet a woman; and I
think that he fully understands the true value of his prize. Marian's
price is "far above rubies," and she will be as good and true in
wifehood as she has ever been in friendship.
Many friends come to the villa, and charm us with their bright talk
and news of that great world which we only peep into now and then. But
Ronald and I are very little known in society, and we prefer to hear of
its doings from others, instead of plunging into its whirl ourselves.
Our early misunderstandings have made us cling all the closer to each
other; life is so sweet to us (ay, and so short), that we do not care
to waste it in intercourse with mere acquaintances. The stranger
inter-meddleth not with our joy.
Only yesterday, just after the summer sunset, we two sat together at
the open window overlooking our garden. The scent of flowers drifted
into the room, and the warm blush of the west was lingering over the
trees. It was the very hour for music, and as he touched the strings of
the guitar, that sweet, gay melody sounded in my ears again.
It is not given to all of us to know the meaning of the melodies that
blend with our lives; and some may have to wait till such strains are
repeated by "the harpers harping with their harps" before the throne.
But to every one there comes the old music of Hope; the promise
(however faintly chanted) of that voice which heaven has lent to earth.
And, although the turmoil of the great crowd may often drown its notes,
the song is always the same; "a song and melody in our heaviness,"
breathing of labour ended, love repaid, and the satisfied heart at
peace in an everlasting rest.
THE END.
LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.