Part 44 (2/2)

They then returned, and settled down at The Poplars, and long may they live there happily. Why, it was only the other day they were married, so much cannot be said of their after life. Knowing the fair-haired Saxon Tom, however, and sweet violet eyes so well, you may be pretty certain that you would search long and widely to find a happier couple in the country round.

It was apparently rather young for Tom to marry and settle down, but he was, with his twenty-one years and experience, older than a good many people of nearly ten years advance in age. Some people look and are older than the calendar puts them down. I shall never forget a well-known military friend, who got into the army under age, in consequence of his old looks. He had a magnificent beard at sixteen, and looked as old as thirty. His brother officers in the mess used to swear that poor--was ”born” with whiskers!

Poor fellow! He afterwards fell at Lucknow.

Susan still lives at the old doctor's house in Bigton, with the cheery Damon and the austere virgin, ”Pythiasina,” as she ought to be called.

Perhaps when the cycle of cradles and pap and babydom once more come round at The Poplars, and little voices are heard in the grim old house--grim now no longer, but lighted up by Lizzie's presence--the daughter of the house may return again to their old home, and ”Garge” be charmed once more with the presence of his dearly loved ”Leetle Mees.”

She seems very happy in her present place, and has quite recovered from the shock of Markworth's death, and is a very different Susan from the girl of a twelvemonth or so back.

The old dowager is quite changed, too, and is ”as merry as a grig, G.o.d bless my soul,” as the doctor says. She does not grind down the tenants so much now, however, and quite startled a farmer the other day by letting him off a portion of back rent, which he had gone up in fear and trembling to The Poplars to excuse himself from paying just then.

And now, reader, the play is nearly ended--the landscape is completed.

The prompter's bell rings, the curtain is about to rise or fall, it does not matter which, and the last touches only remain to be put to the picture, ere the public be admitted to the view, or the scene closes.

In conclusion, it behoves the _Deus et Machina_ of the puppet show--the painter of the canvas--to offer some little explanation touching the characters introduced, explanation which will tend, perhaps, to elucidate apparent anachronisms with regard to persons and purposes, and acting like the stray _soupcon_ of Chinese white on the superstratum of the finished pencil drawing, heighten the effects of light and shade.

An attempt has been made to portray the struggle of Will _versus_ Power, of Opportunity against Destiny; and to show the contests which sometimes arise between the worse and better feelings of our nature, and how each and all of us are often ”Caught in a Trap” of our own making! It depends upon the reader to decide whether the attempt has been a success or a failure; and he or she can fit on each pa.s.sion or feeling to the particular human peg or character on which they think it best should hang.

Above all, the writer wished to draw attention to the looseness of the law, and its vagaries applied to our social and moral life, as evinced in Susan's case. The character and history of the girl is no romance, for Susan is taken from actual existence; still the fallacy of the current ideas on the subject of lunacy and its laws has been already exposed by an abler pictorial pen than that of the writer.

Markworth and Clara Kingscott are no unusual types: search the daily police and criminal intelligence, and you will come across their ”doubles.” Speaking in the language of the _cuisine_, the meats provided have been fair and hearty, and if the _plat_ be over-seasoned or not sufficiently spiced, the blame rests on the _chef_, and not on the viands.

Ring away, prompter! Lower the curtain. The play is ended: _le jeu est fait_. The scene closes on the well-known forms and faces; and, as the curtain drops on the general tableau at the end, I can still see the cheery, weather-beaten face of Doctor Jolly, and hear him exclaiming, in his usual way, with his hearty voice and contagious _bonhomie_--

”Bless my soul, sir! How are you? How-de-doo?”

THE END.

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