[CHAPTER LIII]
A POSTSCRIPT. MR. AND MRS. ATHELSTAN TAYLOR. MR. AND MRS. BROWNRIGG. ODDS AND ENDS OF SEQUELS. THE DREAM VANISHES, READABLE BITS AND ALL!
"It's a magnificent match, and she'll make a perfect Duchess," said the Reverend Athelstan Taylor a twelvemonth later—only six months ago at this present time of writing. "And Thyringia will make a perfect dowager. But the old Duke may live to see a grandchild or two. Doesn't do to count one's coronets before they're hatched—eh, Addie?"
"I do wish, Yorick dearest, you would be a little less secretive, and tell me what she really said that time."
"I have told you, sweetheart, all there was to tell. I haven't been keeping anything back."
"Never mind! Tell it again."
"Well—it was just like this." He dropped his voice to sadness, as in deference to something sad outside the matter of his speech. "I had just come from reading the service over poor Jim and...."
"Darling little Lizarann! Oh, Yorick, I don't believe I shall ever love my own child as...." The speaker could not utter another word; and, indeed, her tears were not the only ones that had to be got clear of before the Rector could proceed. In time he got on with his twice-told tale; but their subjugation overlapped his words that followed:
"Well—it was then! I dare say the young woman didn't mean to be supercilious and provoking, but she was. Why couldn't she leave the funeral alone? She hadn't come to it, and no one had asked her to do so...."
"I don't believe there were half-a-dozen people in the village that didn't."