"I'm sure I'm very proud to have got such a young lady to have come and joined her lot with mine," continued Joe; "and n.o.body can think more about his wife's family than I do."

"And all Buston," said the aunt.

"Yes, and all Buston."

"I'm sure we're all sorry that the bride's uncle, from Buston Hall, has not been able to come here to-day. You ought to say that, Joe."

"Yes, I do say it. I'm very sorry that Mr. Prosper isn't able to be here."

"Perhaps Miss Thoroughbung can tell us something about him?" said Mr.

Crabtree.

"Me! I know nothing special. When I saw him last he was in good health.

I did nothing to him to make him keep his bed. Mrs. Crabtree seems to think that I have got your uncle in my keeping. Molly, I beg to say that I'm not responsible."

It must be allowed that amid such free conversation it was difficult for Joe to shine as an orator. But as he had no such ambition, perhaps the interruptions only served him. But Miss Thoroughbung's witticism did throw a certain damp over the wedding-breakfast. It was perhaps to have been expected that the lady should take her revenge for the injury done to her. It was the only revenge that she did take. She had been ill-used, she thought, and yet she had not put Mr. Prosper to a shilling of expense. And there was present to her a feeling that the uncle had at the last moment been debarred from complying with her small requests in favor of Miss Tickle and the ponies on behalf of the young man who was now sitting opposite to her, and that the good things coming from Buston Hall were to be made to flow in the way of the Annesleys generally rather than in her way. She did not regret them very much, and it was not in her nature to be bitter; but still all those little touches about Mr. Prosper were pleasant to her, and were, of course, unpleasant to the Annesleys. Then, it will be said, she should not have come to partake of a breakfast in Mr. Annesley's dining-room. That is a matter of taste, and perhaps Miss Thoroughbung's taste was not altogether refined.

Joe's speech came to an end, and with it his aunt's remarks. But as she left the room she said a few words to Mr. Annesley. "Don't suppose that I am angry,--not in the least; certainly not with you or Harry. I'd do him a good turn to-morrow if I could; and so, for the matter of that, I would to his uncle. But you can't expect but what a woman should have her feelings and express them." Mr. Annesley, on the other hand, thought it strange that a woman in such a position should express her feelings.

Then at last came the departure. Molly was taken up into her mother's room and cried over for the last time. "I know that I'm an old fool!"

"Oh, mamma! now, dearest mamma!"

"A good husband is the greatest blessing that G.o.d can send a girl, and I do think that he is good and sterling."

"He is, mamma,--he is. I know he is."

"And when that woman talks about brewery chimneys, I know what a comfort it is that there should be chimneys, and that they should be near.

Brewery chimneys are better than a do-nothing scamp that can't earn a meal for himself or his children. And when I see Joe with his pink coat on going to the meet, I thank G.o.d that my Molly has got a lad that can work hard, and ride his own horses, and go out hunting with the best of them."

"Oh, mamma, I do like to see him then. He is handsome."

"I would not have anything altered. But--but--Oh, my child, you are going away!"

"As Mrs. Crabtree says, I sha'n't be far."

"No, no! But you won't be all mine. The time will come when you'll think of your girls in the same way. You haven't done a thing that I haven't seen and known and pondered over; you haven't worn a skirt but what it has been dear to me; you haven't uttered a prayer but what I have heard it as it went up to G.o.d's throne. I hope he says his prayers."

"I'm sure he does," said Molly, with confidence more or less well founded.

"Now go, and leave me here. I'm such an old stupid that I can't help crying; and if that woman was to say anything more to me about the chimneys I should give her a bit of my mind."

Then Molly went down with her travelling-hat on, looking twice prettier than she had done during the whole of the morning ceremonies. It is, I suppose, on the bridegroom's behalf that the bride is put forth in all her best looks just as she is about to become, for the first time, exclusively his own. Molly, on the present occasion, was very pretty, and Joe was very proud. It was not the least of his pride that he, feeling himself to be not quite as yet removed from the "Bung" to the "Thorough," had married into a family by which his ascent might be matured.

And then, as they went, came the normal shower of rice, to be picked up in the course of the next hour by the vicarage fowls, and not by the London beggars, and the air was darkened by a storm of old shoes. In London, white satin slippers are the fashion. But Buston and Buntingford combined could not afford enough of such missiles; and from the hands of the boys black shoes, and boots too, were thrown freely. "There go my best pair," said one of the boys, as the chariot was driven off, "and I don't mean to let them lie there." Then the boots were recovered and taken up to the bedroom.

Now that Molly was gone, Harry's affairs became paramount at Buston.

After all, Harry was of superior importance to Molly, though those chimneys at Buntingford could probably give a better income than the acres belonging to the park. But Harry was to be the future Prosper of the county; to a.s.sume at some future time the family name; and there was undoubtedly present to them all at the parsonage a feeling that Harry Annesley Prosper would loom in future years a bigger squire than the parish had ever known before. He had got a fellowship, which no Prosper had ever done; and he had the look and tone of a man who had lived in London, which had never belonged to the Prospers generally. And he was to bring a wife, with a good fortune, and one of whom a reputation for many charms had preceded her. And Harry, having been somewhat under a cloud for the last six months, was now emerging from it brighter than ever. Even Uncle Prosper could not do without him. That terrible Miss Thoroughbung had thrown a gloom over Buston Hall which could only be removed, as the squire himself had felt, by the coming of the natural heir. Harry was indispensable, and was no longer felt by any one to be a burden.

It was now the end of March. Old Mr. Scarborough was dead and buried, and Mountjoy was living at Tretton. Nothing had been heard of his coming up to London. No rushing to the card-tables had been announced. That there were to be some terrible internecine law contests between him and Augustus had been declared in many circles, but of this nothing was known at the Buston Rectory. Harry had been one day at Cheltenham, and had been allowed to spend the best part of an hour with his sweetheart; but this permission had been given on the understanding that he was not to come again, and now for a month he had abstained. Then had come his uncle's offer, that generous offer under which Harry was to bring his wife to Buston Hall, and live there during half the year, and to receive an increased allowance for his maintenance during the other half. As he thought of his ways and means he fancied that they would be almost rich.

She would have four hundred a year, and he as much; and an established home would be provided for them. Of all these good things he had written to Florence, but had not yet seen her since the offer had been made. Her answer had not been as propitious as it might be, and it was absolutely necessary that he should go down to Cheltenham and settle things.

The three years had in his imagination been easily reduced to one, which was still, as he thought, an impossible time for waiting. By degrees it came down to six months in his imagination, and now to three, resulting in an idea that they might be easily married early in June, so as to have the whole of the summer before them for their wedding-tour.

"Mother," he said, "I shall be off to-morrow."

"To Cheltenham?"

"Yes, to Cheltenham. What is the good of waiting. I think a girl may be too obedient to her mother."

"It is a fine feeling, which you will be glad to remember that she possessed."

"Supposing that you had declared that Molly shouldn't have married Joe Thoroughbung?"

"Molly has got a father," said Mrs. Annesley.

"Suppose she had none?"

"I cannot suppose anything so horrible."

"As if you and he had joined together to forbid Molly."

"But we didn't."

"I think a girl may carry it too far," said Harry. "Mrs. Mountjoy has committed herself to Mountjoy Scarborough, and will not go back from her word. He has again come back to the fore, and out of a ruined man has appeared as the rich proprietor of the town of Tretton. Of course the mother hangs on to him still."

"You don't think Florence will change?"

"Not in the least. I'm not a bit afraid of Mountjoy Scarborough and all his property; but I can see that she may be subjected to much annoyance from which I ought to extricate her."

"What can you do, Harry?"

"Go and tell her so. Make her understand that she should put herself into my hands at once, and that I could protect her."

"Take her away from her mother by force?" said Mrs. Annesley, with horror.

"If she were once married her mother would think no more about it. I don't believe that Mrs. Mountjoy has any special dislike to me. She thinks of her own nephew, and as long as Florence is Florence Mountjoy there will be for her the chance. I know that he has no chance; and I don't think that I ought to leave her there to be bullied for some endless period of time. Think of three years,--of dooming a girl to live three years without ever seeing her lover! There is an absurdity about it which is revolting. I shall go down to-morrow and see if I cannot put a stop to it." To this the mother could make no objection, though she could express no approval of a project under which Florence was to be made to marry without her mother's consent.

CHAPTER LX.

MR. SCARBOROUGH IS BURIED.

When Mr. Scarborough died, and when he had been buried, his son Mountjoy was left alone at Tretton, living in a very desolate manner. Till the day of the funeral, Merton, the doctor, had remained with him and his aunt, Miss Scarborough; but when the old squire had been laid in his grave they both departed. Miss Scarborough was afraid of her nephew, and could not look forward to living comfortably at the big house; and Dr.

Merton had the general work of his life to call him away. "You might as well stay for another week," Mountjoy had said to him. But Merton had felt that he could not remain at Tretton without some especial duty, and he too went his way.