CONCLUSION.
I, Charles Strange, took up this story at its commencement, and I take
it up now at its close.
* * * * *
It was a lovely day at the end of summer, in the year following the
events recorded in the last chapter, and we were again at Marshdale
House.
The two individuals who had chiefly marred the peace of one or another
of us in the past were both gone where disturbance is not. Poor Tom
Heriot was mouldering in his grave near to that in which his father
and mother lay, not having been discovered by the police or molested
in any way; and the afflicted Italian lad had died soon after he was
taken to his native land. Mr. Hill had warned Nina Sparlati that, in
all probability, he would not live long. Mrs. Brightman, I may as well
say it here, had recovered permanently; recovered in all ways, as we
hoped and believed. The long restraint laid upon her by her illness
had effected the cure that nothing else might have been able to
effect, and re-established the good habits she had lost. But Miss
Brightman was dead; she had not lived to come home from Madeira, and
the whole of her fortune was left to Annabel. "So you can live where
you please now and go in for grandeur," Arthur Lake said to me and my
wife. "All in good time," laughed Annabel; "I am not yet tired of
Essex Street."
And now we had come down in the sunny August weather when the courts
were up, to stay at Marshdale.
You might be slow to recognise it, though. Recalling the picture of
Marshdale House as it was, and looking at it now, many would have said
it could not be the same.
The dreary old structure had been converted into a light and beautiful
mansion. The whitened windows with their iron bars were no more. The
disfiguring, unnaturally-high walls were gone, and the tangled shrubs
and weeds, the overgrowth of trees that had made the surrounding land
a wilderness, were now turned into lovely pleasure-grounds. The gloomy
days had given place to sunny ones, said Lord Level, and the gloomy
old structure, with its gloomy secrets, should be remembered no more.
Marshdale was now their chief home, his and his wife's, with their
establishment of servants. Mr. Drewitt and Mrs. Edwards had moved into
a pretty dwelling hard by; but they were welcomed whenever they liked
to go to the house, and were treated as friends. The steward kept the
accounts still, and Mrs. Edwards was appealed to by Blanche in all
domestic difficulties. She rarely appeared before her lady but in her
quaint gala attire.
We were taking tea out of doors at the back of the renovated East
Wing. The air bore that Sabbath stillness which Sunday seems to bring:
distant bells, ringing the congregation out of church, fell
melodiously on the ear. We had been idle this afternoon and stayed at
home, but all had attended service in the morning. Mr. Hill had called
in and was sitting with us. Annabel presided at the rustic tea-table;
Blanche was a great deal too much occupied with her baby-boy, whom she
had chosen to have brought out: a lively young gentleman in a blue
sash, whose face greatly resembled his father's. Next to Lord Level
sat my uncle, who had come down for a week's rest. He was no longer
Serjeant Stillingfar; but Sir Charles, and one of her Majesty's
judges.
"Won't you have some tea, my dear?" he said to Blanche, who was
parading the baby.
By the way, they had named him Charles. Charles Archibald; to be
called by the former name: Lord Level protested he would not have
people saying Young Archie and Old Archie.
"Yes, Blanche," said he, taking up the suggestion of the judge. "Do
let that child go indoors: one might think he was a new toy. Here,
I'll take him."
"Archibald need not talk," laughed Blanche, looking after her husband,
who had taken the child from her and was tossing it as he went
indoors. "He is just as fond of having the baby as I am. Neither need
you laugh, Mr. Charles," turning upon me; "your turn will come soon,
you know."
Leaving the child in its nursery in the East Wing, Lord Level came
back to his place; and we sat on until evening approached. A peaceful
evening, promising a glorious sunset. An hour after midday, when we
had just got safely in from church, there had been a storm of thunder
and lightning, and it had cleared the sultry air. The blue sky above,
flecked with gold, was of a lovely rose colour towards the west.
"The day has been a type of life: or of what life ought to be,"
suddenly remarked Mr. Hill. "Storm and cloud succeeded by peace and
sunshine."
"The end is not always peaceful," said Lord Level.
"It mostly is when we have worked on for it patiently," said the
judge. "My friends, you may take the word of an old man for it--that a
life of storm and trouble, through which we have struggled manfully to
do our duty under God, ever bearing on in reliance upon Him, must of
necessity end in peace. Perhaps not always perfect and entire peace in
this world; but assuredly in that which is to come."
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_S. & H._
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent and archaic spelling retained.