Farebrother. "He was ten times worthier of you
than I was," Fred could now say to her, magnanimously. "To be sure
he was," Mary answered; "and for that reason he could do better
without me. But you--I shudder to think what you would have been--
a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs!"
On inquiry it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still
inhabit Stone Court--that the creeping plants still cast the foam
of their blossoms over the fine stone-wall into the field where the
walnut-trees stand in stately row--and that on sunny days the two
lovers who were first engaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen
in white-haired placidity at the open window from which Mary Garth,
in the days of old Peter Featherstone, had often been ordered
to look out for Mr. Lydgate.
Lydgate's hair never became white. He died when he was only fifty,
leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance
on his life. He had gained an excellent practice, alternating,
according to the season, between London and a Continental bathing-place;
having written a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal
of wealth on its side. His skill was relied on by many paying patients,
but he always regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he
once meant to do. His acquaintances thought him enviable to have
so charming a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion.
Pages:
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263