The other servants were affected by the breaking up more in Keziah’s way than with any dismal realisation in their own persons of a conclusion to this chapter of life. They had all ‘characters’ that would procure them new places wherever they went; for Mrs. Mountford had not tolerated any black sheep. And as for old Saymore, he was greatly elated by his approaching landlordship, and the marriage which he hoped was settled. He was not aware of Rose’s interference, nor of the superior hopes which she had dangled before his bride. ‘I don’t need to say as I’m sorry to leave, sir,’ Saymore said to Mr. Loseby, who settled his last bills; ‘and sorry, very sorry, for the occasion. Master was a gentleman as seemed to have many years’ life in him, and to be cut off like that is a lesson to us all. But the living has to think of themselves, sir, when all’s done as can be done to show respect for the dead. And I don’t know as I could have had a finer opening. I will miss a deal as I’ve had here, Mr. Loseby. The young ladies I’ll ever take the deepest interest in. I’ve seen ’em grow up, and it’ll always be a ‘appiness to see them, and you too, sir, as has always been most civil, at my ‘otel. But though there’s a deal to regret, there’s something on the other side to be thankful for, and we’re told as everything works together for the best.’
This was the idea very strung in the mind of the house. As the landlord of the ‘Black Bull’ holds a higher position in the world than even the most trusted of butlers, so the position of Mrs. Cook, as henceforward housekeeper and virtual mistress of Mount, was more dignified than when she was only at the head of the kitchen: and Worth, if she did not gain in dignity, had at least the same compensation as her mistress, and looked forward to seeing the world, and having a great deal of variety in her life. They all said piously that everything worked together for the best. So that poor Mr. Mountford was the cause of a great deal of gratification to his fellow-creatures without knowing or meaning it, when his horse put his foot into that rabbit-hole. The harm he did his favourite child scarcely counted as against the advantage he did to many of his dependents. Such are the compensations in death as in life.
But it was December before they got away. After all it turned out that ‘mother and the boys’ had more weight with Keziah than Rose’s offer, and the promise of superior advantage in the future; and she was left in the cottage she came from, preparing her wedding things, and learning by daily experiment how impossible it would have been to content herself with a similar cottage, weak tea, bad butter, and fat bacon, instead of the liberal régime of the servants’ hall, which Rose had freely and graphically described as meaning ‘three or four nice luncheons a day.’ The Mountfords finally departed with very little sentiment; everything was provided for, even the weekly wreath on the grave, and there was nothing for anyone to reproach herself with. Anne, as usual, was the one who felt the separation most. She was going to Cosmo’s constant society, and to the enjoyment of many things she had pined for all her life. Yet the visionary wrench, the total rending asunder of life and all that was implied in it, affected her more than she could say, more than, in the calm of the others, there seemed any reason for. She went out the day before for a long farewell walk, while Rose was still superintending her packing. Anne made a long round through the people in the village, glad that the women should cry, and that there should be some sign here at least of more natural sentiment—and into the Rectory, where she penetrated to the Rector’s study, and was standing by him with her hand upon his arm before he was aware. ‘I have come to say good-bye,’ she said—looking at him with a smile, yet tears in her eyes.
The Rector rose to his feet hastily and took her into his arms. ‘God bless you, my dear child! but you might have been sure I would have come to see the last of you, to bid you farewell at the carriage door——’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, clinging to her old friend, ‘but that is not like good-bye here, is it? where I have always been allowed to come to you, all my life.’
‘And always shall!’ cried the Rector, ‘whenever you want me, howsoever I can be of any use to you!’
The Curate came in while they were still clinging to each other, talking, as people will do when their hearts are full, of one who was no longer there to be bidden good-bye to—the Rector’s wife, for whom he went mourning always, and who had been fond of Anne. Thus she said her farewell both to the living and the dead. Charley walked solemnly by her side up to the park gates. He did not say much; his heart was as heavy as lead in his breast. ‘I don’t know how the world is to go on without you,’ he said; ‘but I suppose it will, all the same.’
‘After a while it will not make much difference,’ said Anne.
‘I suppose nothing makes much difference after a while,’ the Curate said; and at the park gates he said good-bye. ‘I shall be at the train to-morrow—but you don’t want me to go to all the other places with you,’ he said with a sigh; ‘and it is of no use telling you, Anne, as my father did, that, night or day, I am at your service whenever you may want me—you know that.’
‘Yes, I know it,’ she said, giving him her hand; but he was glad that he left her free to visit some other sacred places alone.