“Yes, Bessy.”
“And when the children have had their tea I will go with mamma. My boxes are ready, you know,” says arch Bessy.
“And you will stay, and dine with Mr. Lovel, won’t you, Mr. Batchelor?” asks the lady.
It was the dreariest dinner I ever had in my life. No undertaker could be more gloomy than Bedford, as he served us. We tried to talk politics and literature. We drank too much, purposely. Nothing would do. “Hang me, if I can stand this, Lovel,” I said, as we sat mum over our third bottle. “I will go back, and sleep at my chambers. I was not a little soft upon her myself, that’s the truth. Here’s her health, and happiness to both of you, with all my heart.” And we drained a great bumper apiece, and I left him. He was very happy I should go.
Bedford stood at the gate, as the little pony-carriage came for me in the dusk. “God bless you, sir,” says he. “I can’t stand it; I shall go too.” And he rubbed his hands over his eyes.
He married Mary Pinhorn, and they have emigrated to Melbourne; whence he sent me, three years ago, an affectionate letter, and a smart gold pin from the diggings.
A month afterwards, a cab might have been seen driving from the Temple to Hanover Square: and a month and a day after that drive, an advertisement might have been read in the Post and Times: “Married, on Thursday, 10th, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, by the Reverend the Master of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, uncle of the bride, Frederick Lovel, Esquire, of Shrublands, Roehampton, to Elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late Captain Montagu Prior, K.S.F.”
We may hear of Lovel Married some other day, but here is an end of Lovel the Widower. Valete et plaudite, you good people, who have witnessed the little comedy. Down with the curtain; cover up the boxes; pop out the gas-lights. Ho! cab. Take us home, and let us have some tea, and go to bed. Good night, my little players. We have been merry together, and we part with soft hearts and somewhat rueful countenances, don’t we?