For Walter could but attribute to the deliberate design of these relatives, and their constant ill-offices, the loss of his cousin; and, on the first discovery of what he called their cruelty and treachery, he vowed that he would have no more to say to them. Perhaps the time came when he was sorry for this resolution, but that time was not yet.
Gradually, however, as I have said, Walter became reconciled to his lot, or at least more contented with it.
After all, he argued within himself, and as, indeed, he wrote to his friend Ralph Burgess, it was only a woman he had lost, and he was not going to make himself miserable all his life long because of this. As to Sarah, he loved her as a cousin still, and there was no harm in that, he hoped. He was also heartily sorry that he had ever suspected her, and so caused her a moment's sorrow. But that was among the bygones now; and he was glad his cousin had got a good husband, though not the one first thought of and planned for and wished for.
But he was sure that Mr. Tincroft, who was a worthy fellow, after all his hard thoughts of him, and his insults too, would use her well; and he hoped and believed that Sarah would be a happy wife, especially as there would be no want nor hard work for her in her new home, now that her husband had got back his rights, as he (Walter) had happened to find out. All this and more the softened penitent wrote to Ralph; and if there was a blot on the paper, as if a big tear had dropped upon one particular part of it while the ink was yet wet, I don't think that either Ralph Burgess or Ralph's sister thought the worse of him for that.
And now we shall leave Walter Wilson to the experiences of colonial life, in which the reader may, if so disposed, picture him as a faithful steward, in all the delights of a life in the bush—the stockyard, the branding-day, with its bustling excitement, shepherding, sheep-shearing, and so forth—with an occasional brush with the natives thrown into the bargain. Occupying him thus, we have leisure to turn to other parties concerned in this narrative. Not to our principal hero, however, whom we must keep in the background for a little while longer, in the yet novel experience of married life, and his otium cum (vel sine) dignitate.
We are once more in England, and at the old Manor House. Not many changes have taken place there, save that Richard Grigson (with all besides) is several years older than when we first made his acquaintance. He is more than ever confirmed in his bachelorhood; it does not lie in his way, he says, to be married. He is as keen a sportsman as ever; and, as of yore, he maintains a sufficient establishment and keeps a hospitable table, though he has not been able to persuade his good friend Tincroft to pay him another visit.
We can understand very well, without having to explain in many words (though we may as well tell it in few), that John has a kind of undefined shrinking from visiting the old spot where, without intending it, he did so much that gave so entirely a new direction to his after-life.
"I'll let well enough alone," says John.
Tom Grigson has some time since left college, but his particular affairs must wait while we devote this chapter to looking up one or two other of our former acquaintances.
First and foremost is our good friend Rubric, who, becoming a trifle more infirm, as well as convinced that his "cure of souls" is over-weighty for his single strength, has taken to himself a curate, who, by some, is reckoned as much too fast as the rector was, by others, thought too slow. It is to be hoped, however, that after a little shaking up together, as they are both good men and true, the mixture of fast and slow will be found the right pace for all parties concerned.