“Your very obedient humble Servant,
“Ferdinand De Courcy, etc.”
Struck with the joyous countenance of my honest valet, as I took my gloves and hat from his hand, I could not help wishing to bestow upon him a similar blessing to that I was about to possess. “Bedos,” said I, “Bedos, my good fellow, you left your wife to come to me; you shall not suffer by your fidelity: send for her—we will find room for her in our future establishment.”
The smiling face of the Frenchman underwent a rapid change. “Ma foi,” said he, in his own tongue; “Monsieur is too good. An excess of happiness hardens the heart; and so, for fear of forgetting my gratitude to Providence, I will, with Monsieur’s permission, suffer my adored wife to remain where she is.”
After so pious a reply, I should have been worse than wicked had I pressed the matter any farther.
I found all ready at Berkeley-Square. Lady Glanville is one of those good persons, who think a marriage out of church is no marriage at all; to church, therefore, we went. Although Sir Reginald was now so reduced that he could scarcely support the least fatigue, he insisted on giving Ellen away. He was that morning, and had been, for the last two or three days, considerably better, and our happiness seemed to grow less selfish in our increasing hope of his recovery.
When we returned from church, our intention was to set off immediately to—Hall, a seat which I had hired for our reception. On re-entering the house, Glanville called me aside—I followed his infirm and tremulous steps into a private apartment.
“Pelham,” said he, “we shall never meet again! no matter—you are now happy, and I shall shortly be so. But there is one office I have yet to request from your friendship; when I am dead, let me be buried by her side, and let one tombstone cover both.”
I pressed his hand, and, with tears in my eyes, made him the promise he required.
“It is enough,” said he; “I have no farther business with life. God bless you, my friend—my brother; do not let a thought of me cloud your happiness.”