"Anger is no word for it. He was turned to stone to her. The deceitfulness—that was always his cry. Poor Mr. John Mowbray—his great friend, the one who had really the most to complain of, was far gentler, though it broke his heart. He never married, and at his death, two years ago, all came to your auntie as his brother's widow, for Mr. Conrad, the brother, was dead. That is how the Old House is now your auntie's, but she has never lived there. She could not bear it, seeing her brother would not forgive her, and she had made up her mind to sell it, and came to stay at the Rectory to get it all arranged. It was partly hearing it was going to be sold, made your grandpapa think of coming here again at last—he thought it was all quite settled, and no fear of any one coming about. For he has not even had any friendliness with the Rectory folk all these years; the old rector spoke to him before he died, and begged him to forgive Miss Queenie, but it only made him harder. He would never hear her name—he scored it out wherever he came across it in a book—"
"Oh, yes, we saw that in London," we interrupted.
"Nothing," continued Mrs. Munt, "but the sight of her poor, sweet, worn face would have changed him, and to think that she should have been the one to tell him the good news last night—it is indeed wonderful how it has come about."
"Was auntie very unhappy with that man—the one she married?" asked Tib in a low voice. Mrs. Munt looked sad and grave.
"My dears," she said, solemnly, "no good comes of ill-doing. The man who deceived his kind brother, who set himself to wile a girl away from her truest and best friends, was not the man to make a good husband. She must have suffered more than you—or we, maybe—could understand. But it is past, and you need never think of it again, except as a warning. Your dear auntie may tell you more herself as you grow older. But for me, I think I have done my part; and, indeed, I could almost feel the work of my life is near its end now I have lived to see my dear master and his best-loved sister united again," and poor Mrs. Munt wiped her eyes as she kissed us, and said we might get up now—we were to go to the Rectory to luncheon.
You will be glad to hear that she is living still, and likely to live for many peaceful years to come.
We were, of course, very much interested in all she had told us. It took some time to get it quite straight and clear in our heads, especially as we felt that we should not much like to talk over the saddest parts of it with any one but ourselves: not even with Regina, for, of course, the man who had brought so much misery to them all—Mr. Conrad Mowbray—was her father (I am not going to let her read this last chapter if I can help it); and even about dear auntie, we felt it would not be kind to talk about it to Regina—though now I can scarcely fancy even Regina herself feeling more tender about anything and everything to do with her mother than Tib and I, who are really only her grandnieces, do.
We were at the same time in a hurry to get dressed, and go down stairs, and yet a little afraid.
"Last night I wasn't afraid of grandpapa," said Tib; "we seemed all worked up, so that only the realest feelings mattered. Little top feelings, like being shy and all that, seemed pushed away."
I didn't answer for a moment. I was thinking over what she said.