Were the same tourist to descend the Wye at a date posterior, and again make a call at Llangorren, he would find that some changes had taken place in the interval of his absence. At the boat dock Old Joe would likely be. But not as before in sole charge of the pleasure craft; only pottering about, as a pensioner retired on full pay; the acting and active officer being a younger man, by name Wingate, who is now waterman to the Court. Between these two, however, there is no spite about the displacement—no bickerings nor heartburnings. How could there, since the younger addresses the older as “uncle”; himself in return being styled “nevvy?”
No need to say, that this relationship has been brought about by the bright eyes of Amy Preece. Nor is it so new. In the lodge where Jack and Joe live together is a brace of chubby chicks; one of them a boy—the possible embryo of a Wye waterman—who, dandled upon old Joe’s knees, takes delight in weeding his frosted whiskers, while calling him “good grandaddy.”
As Jack’s mother—who is also a member of this happy family—forewarned him, the wildest grief must in time give way, and Nature’s laws assert their supremacy. So has he found it; and though still holding Mary Morgan in sacred, honest remembrance, he—as many a true man before, and others as true to come—has yielded to the inevitable.
Proceeding on to the Court the friendly visitor will at certain times there meet the same people he met before; but the majority of them having new names or titles. An added number in two interesting olive branches there also, with complexions struggling between blonde and brunette, who call Captain and Mrs Ryecroft their papa and mamma; while the lady who was once Eleanor Lees—the “companion”—is now Mrs Musgrave, life companion not to the curate of Llangorren Church, but its rector. The living having become vacant, and in the bestowal of Llangorren’s heiress, has been worthily bestowed on the Reverend William.
Two other old faces, withal young ones, the returned tourist will see at Llangorren—their owners on visit as himself. He might not know either of them by the names they now bear—Sir George and Lady Shenstone. For when he last saw them the gentleman was simply Mr Shenstone, and the lady Miss Mahon. The old baronet is dead, and the young one, succeeding to the title, has also taken upon himself another title—that of husband—proving the Spanish apothegm true, both in the spirit and to the letter.
If there be any nail capable of driving out another, it is that sent home by the glance of an Irish girl’s eye—at least so thinks Sir George Shenstone, with good reason for thinking it.
There are two other individuals, who come and go at the Court—the only ones holding out, and likely to hold, against change of any kind. For Major Mahon is still Major Mahon, rolling on in his rich Irish brogue as ever abhorrent of matrimony. No danger of his becoming a Benedict!
And as little of Miss Linton being transformed into a sage woman. It would be strange if she should, with the love novels she continues to devour, and the “Court Intelligence” she gulps down, keeping alive the hallucination that she is still a belle at Bath and Cheltenham.
So ends our “Romance of the Wye;” a drama of happy dénouement to most of the actors in it; and, as hoped, satisfactory to all who have been spectators.