Alice did not look up when she spoke. She knew what she had said: she was offering herself to him. She knew he would not ask her. A rush of happiness came into Prescott’s heart. Was this great prize he had loved and waited for all these years his after all? He took her hand.
“Alice, I have loved you ever since I knew you. I loved you with a boy’s adoration: I have loved you with a man’s love ever since. I have never ventured to hope until lately—never even dreamt that you could return it. Is this great happiness mine after all? Oh, Alice, do you really love me?”
A minute afterwards Charley ran up to his mamma.
“Mammy, I want to whisper.” Kate lifted him up. “Mammy, Uncle Arthur is very naughty. I saw him kiss Aunt Alice.”
“And quite right, too,” Kate said, heartily. “If he had not been a bashful goose, he’d have done it a fortnight ago. It’s all right, Charley; but don’t say anything about it. Here, take your basket and run off to grandpapa, he’s caught a crab.”
Three weeks after this time Fred Bingham’s name appeared in the Gazette, and on the very same day, among the announcements of deaths was that of his wife. Beyond the fact that he went to America, nothing was ever heard of him for certainty afterwards; although two or three years later, at Kate’s request, Frank made an effort to trace him in order to settle a small annuity upon him. He never succeeded in hearing of him with certainty. The only clue was that a person answering his description was shot in a card-room in a low gambling saloon in New York.
John Holl is a happy and a flourishing man. He does not exert himself greatly now, but prefers sitting by his fireside and smoking his pipe. The real management of the business lies in the hands of his son Evan, who is shortly going to take a wife to himself, and Kate Maynard is on the look-out for another nurse.
Down in a pretty cottage, near the New Forest, live an old gentleman and his daughter, a very pretty but very quiet woman, whose tender love and care for her father have won her the esteem of all around. Many offers has she had, but she has gently refused them all, and it is generally understood that the young widow will never marry again. Years on, perhaps she may, but at present every thought and affection are centred in her father.
Frank Maynard and his wife live in Lowndes Square; with them resides their uncle, who is still alive, although now a very old man. He thinks a little sadly sometimes of a grave down at Torquay, within sound of the murmur of the waves, where, according to his wishes, sleeps the cripple boy; but generally he is as bright and cheery as ever, and spoils Kate’s children, and she has four, immensely.
Arthur Prescott lives in Wilton Place, so that the friends are as intimate as ever; and Kate, on the strength of her superior knowledge upon the subject of children, is in great request with Alice at Wilton Place.