And first as to Ben and Lucy. It was commonly said that there were no people in all England who were so exactly suited to each other as these two, for they seemed to understand each other to the smallest degree, and never had contrary thoughts on any matter. What Lucy liked Ben liked; what Ben wanted Lucy was sure to want. So they walked the path of life, each thinking the other to be well-nigh perfect. They had no less than twelve children—five boys and seven girls—all of whom lived. Ben grew stout and rosy, and got prouder every time Lucy presented him with a new infant. He did well in his business and made money. Then he became a Councillor, and afterwards an Alderman. And in due time matters so prospered with him that they made him Mayor of his native town, and a prouder man I never saw than he was on the day of his election. He continued to grow stouter and rosier, and of more importance, until he died at the age of sixty, leaving Lucy to mourn him with sincere affection, which she did for nearly ten years, when she went to join him in a better world.
As for Parson Drumbleforth, he lived many years after my wedding, and remained hale and hearty to the very end. Until the last week of his life he was used to come out to Dale’s Field now and then and talk with us of the old bygone days. He was invariably accompanied by Jack, who had remained at home studying with his father, and who was, as the Vicar said, very comforting to his declining years. Now, upon the Easter Sunday of the Vicar had celebrated the Holy Communion in his parish church, and had kneeled down to make his thanksgiving, at which devotion he was so long engaged that Jack went to his side and touched him, only to find that the good old man was dead and had gone to finish his prayers in heaven. So then there came another Vicar to Darrington, and Jack said farewell to us and rode away to London. It was many years before I saw him again, and then he stayed two nights at Dale’s Field on his way north, and told us that he was now become a clergyman and was going to a living in the North Riding. Likewise he had printed a little book of verses which had gained him some fame, and he gave a copy to Rose. So he went to his living and now abideth there, being an old man and a faithful minister, and amuseth himself with his garden and his verse-making, having never married.
Jacob Trusty, who was as true and loyal a friend as ever man had, lived until he was eighty-five years of age, and when he died we wept his loss as sincerely as if he had been a very near relation. For years before he died he did no work, but sat in his armchair by the fireside in our great kitchen. When my first boy was born, which was about a year after our marriage, Jacob’s delight knew no bounds, and from that moment he gave over attending the cows and took to the chimney-corner, so that he might watch the baby. He would sit there and rock the cradle for hours, and for the boy’s sake he recalled many an old song, and sang it in his cracked voice as the lad sat on his knee. He saw more children of mine before he died, but it was my eldest son, William, that he worshipped, and the boy’s hand held his when he died. I think that in him Jacob used to see me, for I often found them talking as Jacob and I had talked in the old days. It was a beautiful spring evening when Jacob died, and he had just said to me that though he had seen a good deal, he had never set eyes on aught so fair as our own acres. Then he laid his head back on the pillow, and holding my boy’s little hand in his own for they had carried the lad up to say “Good night”—he fell asleep, to wake in another world. And in him I lost one who had loved me and mine with a love which no words can do justice to.
And now for myself and my dear, dear wife, whom truly I believe to have grown in every grace and virtue as the years have gone by. We have had six children, three boys and as many girls, and so far God hath taken none of them from us. In all our married life there has been no cloud, for we have been so happy in our love that nothing has seemed powerful enough to touch us. The years have come and gone, and every day she has grown dearer, and, as I think, more beautiful. It is true that she is now old, and that her once dark hair is gray; but to me who have loved her since she was a child, she has never changed. As I write these last words she is walking in the orchard with my eldest daughter, who is the very image of what her mother was many a year ago, and as I watch her my heart thanks God for His mercy in
