After his wedding he started in the green-grocery line, had a big plate-glass front put into the old shop, originally owned by Nell’s aunt, and drove a very prosperous trade; he served the hall, Brickett, and a host of the surrounding gentry and tradespeople; and it is but justice to him for us to signify that he made Nell an excellent husband.
Brickett still kept the “Carved Lion,” and would often, when in a contemplative mood, wonder what had become of Charles Peace, but it was only to his particular cronies that he would broach the subject, for Peace by this time was looked upon as a daring and hardened offender, and the more discreet portion of the villagers forbore from mentioning his name or making any allusion to him.
Let us now take a glance at Stoke Ferry Farm. The external appearance of this English homestead we described in a preceding chapter.
Now there is seated on the roughly-hewn bench before the front door, a bright-eyed, dimpled-cheeked young woman twittering to a baby which she holds in her arms, the female in question being none other than she whom we have known as Patty Jamblin. She is now Mrs. Richard Ashbrook.
She caresses the child—she talks sweet gibberish to it with her lips; doubtless the words she gave utterance to were but a mere sound to the child, but, to all appearance, it is a pleasing sound, for the little thing “rears its creasy arms” and smiles, and sometimes the young mother, sustaining her offspring with one arm, would stroke its face with her fingers, which were soft and delicate.
And ever and anon she would look down the long white road, which was only lost to view among the dark and distant woods.
She was evidently expecting something or someone, for her glance was earnest and frequent.
Presently her eyes brightened, and she tossed the baby gaily in the air, the infant uttering loud and rapid screams, which no one but a mother or one who had been accustomed to children could have understood to be demonstrations of delight.
The black dot in the distance had now become a man on horseback, who galloped towards the farmhouse enthroned in a cloud of dust.
“It is Richard,” cried Patty. “I knew it by the manner he rode—it is he.”