Chapter XXI: Closing Words

THERE is very little more to tell about Ronald and myself; the eventful period of our lives lasted only a short time, and ended with the finding of Inez Greystock's legacy.

The diamonds were sold for a sum so large that it ensured us a fair competence for the rest of our days. And then, too, as the company flourished, Ronald's salary increased, and we soon found ourselves in a very comfortable position.

We did not leave our rooms in Chapel Place until the winter was past and the spring had fairly set in; and then we moved into a pretty little villa at Kensington.

It was not long before nurse gave up letting lodgings, and came to live with us. Her husband died soon after our removal, and she was left alone in the world. It was, therefore, the most natural thing that she should take up her abode in our home; and at this present time she domineers over my babies as she once domineered over me. Nothing can be successfully arranged without her helping hands; and in all our little difficulties and ailments she proves herself to be devoted to our interests.

In these days of eye-service, our friends are inclined to covet our faithful old servant; and we, on our side, repay her zeal with the heartiest affection and kindness.

Lady Waterville, now a very old woman, still lives in the house in George Street, and our frequent visits are her greatest pleasure. Mr. Drury comes up twice a year from his pleasant rectory in the country, and occupies a spare room in the Kensington villa—a room which is always ready for his use. I can never forget that he took me in and sheltered me in my need and sickness, and my husband owes him an eternal debt of gratitude.

Our favourite friend, Marian, will soon cease to be Miss Bailey, and a few weeks will find her settled in a villa close to ours. After refusing several offers, she finally resigned her heart to one of Ronald's friends, a clever barrister, who fell so desperately in love with her that there was no resisting him. My husband says that he is one of the most fortunate of men to have won so sweet a woman; and I think that he fully understands the true value of his prize. Marian's price is "far above rubies," and she will be as good and true in wifehood as she has ever been in friendship.

Many friends come to the villa, and charm us with their bright talk and news of that great world which we only peep into now and then. But Ronald and I are very little known in society, and we prefer to hear of its doings from others, instead of plunging into its whirl ourselves. Our early misunderstandings have made us cling all the closer to each other; life is so sweet to us (ay, and so short), that we do not care to waste it in intercourse with mere acquaintances. The stranger inter-meddleth not with our joy.

Only yesterday, just after the summer sunset, we two sat together at the open window overlooking our garden. The scent of flowers drifted into the room, and the warm blush of the west was lingering over the trees. It was the very hour for music, and as he touched the strings of the guitar, that sweet, gay melody sounded in my ears again.

It is not given to all of us to know the meaning of the melodies that blend with our lives; and some may have to wait till such strains are repeated by "the harpers harping with their harps" before the throne. But to every one there comes the old music of Hope; the promise (however faintly chanted) of that voice which heaven has lent to earth. And, although the turmoil of the great crowd may often drown its notes, the song is always the same; "a song and melody in our heaviness," breathing of labour ended, love repaid, and the satisfied heart at peace in an everlasting rest.

THE END.

LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.