Johnny Eames, when last I heard of him, was still a bachelor, and, as I think, likely to remain so. At last he had utterly thrown over Sir Raffle Buffle, declaring to his friends that the special duties of private secretaryship were not exactly to his taste. “You get so sick at the thirteenth private note,” he said, “that you find yourself unable to carry on the humbug any farther.” But he did not leave his office. “I’m the head of a room, you know,” he told Lady Julia De Guest; “and there’s nothing to trouble me—and a fellow, you know, ought to have something to do.” Lady Julia told him, with a great deal of energy, that she would never forgive him if he gave up his office. After that eventful night when he escaped ignominiously from the house of Lady Demolines under the protection of the policeman’s lantern, he did hear more than once from Porchester Terrace, and from allies employed by the enemy who was there resident. “My cousin, the serjeant,” proved to be a myth. Johnny found out all about that Serjeant Runter, who was distantly connected, indeed, with the late husband of Lady Demolines, but had always persistently declined to have any intercourse whatever with her ladyship. For the serjeant was a rising man, and Lady Demolines was not exactly progressing in the world. Johnny heard nothing from the serjeant; but from Madalina he got letter after letter. In the first she asked him not to think too much of the little joke that had occurred. In her second she described the vehemence of her love. In her third the bitterness of her wrath. Her fourth she simply invited him to come and dine in Porchester Terrace. Her fifth was the outpouring of injured innocence. And then came letters from an attorney. Johnny answered not a word to any of them, and gradually the letters were discontinued. Within six months of the receipt of the last, he was delighted by reading among the marriages in the newspapers a notice that Peter Bangles, Esq., of the firm of Burton and Bangles, wine merchants, of Hook Court, had been united to Madalina, daughter of the late Sir Confucius Demolines, at the church of Peter the Martyr. “Most appropriate,” said Johnny, as he read the notice to Conway Dalrymple, who was then back from his wedding tour; “for most assuredly there will be now another Peter the Martyr.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Conway, who had heard something of Mr. Peter Bangles. “There are men who have strong wills of their own, and strong hands of their own.”
“Poor Madalina!” said Johnny. “If he does beat her, I hope he will do it tenderly. It may be that a little of it will suit her fevered temperament.”
Before the summer was over Conway Dalrymple had been married to Clara Van Siever, and by a singular arrangement of circumstances had married her with the full approval of old Mrs. Van. Mr. Musselboro—whose name I hope has not been altogether forgotten, though the part played by him has been subordinate—had opposed Dalrymple in the efforts made by the artist to get something out of Broughton’s estate for the benefit of the widow. From circumstances of which Dalrymple learned the particulars with the aid of an attorney, it seemed to him that certain facts were wilfully kept in the dark by Musselboro, and he went with his complaint to Mrs. Van Siever, declaring that he would bring the whole affair into court, unless all the workings of the firm were made clear to him. Mrs. Van was very insolent to him—and even turned him out of the house. But, nevertheless, she did not allow Mr. Musselboro to escape. Whoever was to be left in the dark she did not wish to be there herself;—and it began to dawn upon her that her dear Musselboro was deceiving her. Then she sent for Dalrymple, and without a word of apology for her former conduct, put him upon the right track. As he was pushing his inquiries, and working heaven and earth for the unfortunate widow—as to whom he swore daily that when this matter was settled he would never see her again, so terrible was she to him with her mock affection and pretended hysterics, and false moralities—he was told one day that she had gone off with Mr. Musselboro! Mr. Musselboro, finding that this was the surest plan of obtaining for himself the little business in Hook Court, married the widow of his late partner, and is at this moment probably carrying on a lawsuit with Mrs. Van. For the lawsuit Conway Dalrymple cared nothing. When the quarrel had become hot between Mrs. Van and her late myrmidon, Clara fell into Conway’s hands without opposition; and, let the lawsuit go as it may, there will be enough left of Mrs. Van’s money to make the house of Mr. and Mrs. Conway Dalrymple very comfortable. The picture of Jael and Sisera was stitched up without any difficulty, and I daresay most of my readers will remember it hanging on the walls of the exhibition.
Before I take my leave of the diocese of Barchester forever, which I purpose to do in the succeeding paragraph, I desire to be allowed to say one word of apology for myself, in answer to those who have accused me—always without bitterness, and generally with tenderness—of having forgotten, in writing of clergymen, the first and most
