Since the occurrence of the events I have just related the course of my life has been a smooth, and, though not exempt from some share in the “ills that flesh is heir to,” an unusually happy one.
In an address, whether from the pulpit or the rostrum, half the battle is to know when you have said enough—the same rule applies with equal force to the tale-writer. There are two errors into which he may fall—he may say too little, or he may say too much. The first is a venial sin, and easily forgiven—the second nearly unpardonable. Such, at all events, being my ideas on the subject, I shall merely proceed to give a brief outline of the fate of the principal personages who have figured in these pages ere I bring this veritable history to a close. Cumberland, after his flight from the scene at the turnpike-house, made his way to Liverpool, and, his money being secreted about his person, hastened to put his original plan into execution. A vessel was about to start for America, by which he obtained a passage to New York. In the United States he continued the same vicious course of life which had exiled him from England, and, as a natural consequence, sank lower and lower in the scale of humanity. The last account heard of him stated that, having added drinking to the catalogue of his vices, his constitution, unable to bear up against the inroads made by dissipation, was rapidly failing, while he was described to be in the most abject poverty. The captain of an American vessel with whom I am slightly acquainted, promised me that he would gain more particulars concerning him, and, if he were in actual want, leave money with some responsible person for his use, so as to ensure him against starvation. The result of his inquiries I have yet to learn.
Old Mr. Coleman was, as may be imagined, dreadfully irate on the receipt of the singular epistle bearing the joint signatures of Lawless and Mr. Lowe Brown, and was only restrained from bringing an action for breach of promise by having it strongly represented to him that the effect of so doing would be to make himself and his niece ridiculous. Freddy and Lucy Markham had the good sense to wait till Mr. Coleman had taken the former into partnership, which he fortunately inclined to do almost immediately; being then, with the aid of Lawless's receivership, in possession of a very comfortable income, the only serious objection to the marriage was removed; and the father, partly to escape Mrs. Coleman's very singular and not over-perspicuous arguments, partly because he loved his son better than he was himself aware, gave his consent.
George Lawless is still a bachelor. If questioned on the subject, his invariable reply is, “Eh, married? Not I! Women are a kind of cattle, don't you see, that I never did understand. If it was anything about a horse now—” There are some, however, who attribute his celibacy to another cause, and deem that he has never yet seen any one calculated to efface the memory of his sincere though eccentric attachment to my sister Fanny.
It was on a bright summer morning that the bells of the little church of Heathfield pealed merrily to celebrate a triple wedding; and fairer brides than Fanny, Clara and Lucy Markham, or happier bridegrooms than Harry Oaklands, Freddy Coleman and myself, never pronounced the irrevocable “I will”. There were smiles on all faces; and if there were a few tears also, they were such as angels might not grudge to weep—tears of pure, unalloyed happiness.
Years have passed away since that day—years of mingled light and shade; but never, as I believe, have either of the couples then linked together shown, by thought, word or deed, that they have failed in gratitude to the Giver of all good things, who in His mercy had granted them the rare and inestimable blessing of sharing the joys and sorrows of this world of trial with a loving and beloved companion.
Clara and I reside at Barstone Priory, which is also Mr. Frampton's home, when he is at home; but his wandering habits lead him to spend much of his time in a round of visits to his friends; and Heathfield Hall and Cottage, Leatherly and Elm Grove, are in turn gladdened by the sound of his kindly laugh and sonorous grunts.
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