ELL, I am back in London after all, amid the murmur of millions of English voices, the rumble of millions of wheels, the painted omnibus, and the providential policeman—all the things to which I bade a long farewell last night. And my reader, if indeed he has kept me company so far, now fidgets a little for fear I am about to mix myself in further complications and pour more follies into the surfeited ear. But no! I have rambled and confessed enough, and in a few more pages I, like the Indian juggler Dick compared me to, shall throw a rope into the sky, and, climbing up it, disappear—into heaven? Again no! It may be a surprise to many, but it was not there that these memoirs were written.

To round up and finish off a narrative that has no plot, no moral, and only the most ridiculous hero, is not so easy as I thought it was going to be. Probably the best plan will be not to say too much about this hero and just a little about his friends.

As I had given up and dismantled my rooms, Dick insisted that I must return to Helmscote with him that same day and finish my Christmas visit, and need it be said that I accepted this invitation?

At the station, upon our arrival in London, I parted with Teddy Lumme and General Sholto.

“By-bye,” said Teddy, cheerfully; “I must trot along and look after the governor; he's in a terrible stew; I don't suppose he has missed two meals running before in his life—poor old beggar! It'll do him good, though; don't you worry, old chap.”

And with a friendly wave of his hand this filial son drove off with the still muttering Bishop.

The General wrung my hand, hoped he would see me again soon, and then, without more words, left us. He was not so cheerful, for that final escapade of his niece had hurt him more than he would allow. Still, it was a fine red neck and a very erect back that I last saw marching down the platform.

“And now, my good Halfred,” I said, “I suppose you fly to Miss Titch and happiness? Lucky fellow!”

“I 'aven't been dismissed yet, sir,” he replied, solemnly, and with no answering smile, “but if you gives me the sack, o' course I'll 'ave to go.”

“Then you think I need your watchful eye on me a little longer?”

From the expression of that watchful eye it was evident that he was very far from disposed to let me take my chance of escaping the consequences of my errors without his assistance. Indeed, to this day he firmly holds the opinion that it was his vigilance alone that insured so harmless an end to our desperate expedition, and that if he had not stood by me I should have conspired again within a week.

“I puts hit to Mr. Shafthead,” he replied, casting a glance at my friend which might be compared to a warning in cipher addressed to some potentate by an allied sovereign.

“You certainly had better come down with us, Halfred,” said Dick. “The Lord only knows what the monsieur would be up to without you.”

And accordingly Halfred went with us to Helmscote.

Behold me now once more beneath the ancient, hospitable roof, the kind hostess smiling graciously, the genial baronet roaring with unrestrained mirth at the tale of our adventures—and Daisy? She was not looking directly at me; but her face was smiling, with pleasure a little, I thought, as well as amusement. At night the same welcoming chamber and a fire as bright as before; only this time no missives thrown through the casement window. Next morning I am severely left alone; Dick has been summoned by his father. Half an hour passes, and then, with an air of triumph, he returns.

“You'll have to look after yourself to-day, monsieur,” he says. “I'm off to town to bring her back with me.”

“Her!” So the stern parent has relented, and some day in the distant future, I suppose, Agnes Grey will be Lady Shafthead and rule this house. What Dick added regarding my own share in this issue I need not repeat, though I confess it will always be a satisfaction for me to think of one headlong performance, unguided even by Halfred, which resulted so prosperously.

Being thus bereft of Dick, what more natural than that I should be entertained by his sister?

She speaks of Dick's happiness with a bright gleam in her eye.

“He should feel very grateful to you,” she says.

I should have preferred “we” to “he,” but, unluckily, I have no choice in the matter.

“I envy him,” I reply, with meaning in my voice.

Her face is composed and as demure as ever, only her color seems to me to be a little higher and her eye certainly does not meet mine as frankly as usual.

Suddenly I am emboldened to exclaim:

“I do not mean that I envy him Miss Grey, but his happiness in being loved!”

And then I tell her whose love I myself covet.

She is embarrassed, she is kind, she is not offended, but her look checks me.

“How often have you felt like this within the last few months—towards some one or other?” she asks.

Alas! How dangerous a thing to let the brother of the adored one know too much! Dick meant no harm; he never knew how his tales would affect me; but evidently he has jested at home about my amours, and now I am regarded by his sister either as a Don Juan or a perpetually love-sick sentimentalist. And the worst of it is that there are some superficial grounds for either theory.

“Ah,” I cry, “you have heard then of my wanderings in search of the ideal? But I have only just found it!”

“How can you be sure of that?” she asks, a little smile appearing in her eye like a sudden break in a misty sky. “You haven't known me long enough to say. In a month you may make a jest of me.”

“I am serious at last. I swear it!”

“I am afraid you will have to remain serious for some time to make me believe it,” she replies, the smile still lingering. “When any one has treated women, and everything else, flippantly so long as you, I—”

She hesitated.

“You do not trust them?”

“No,” she confesses.

“If I am serious for six months will you trust me then?”

“Perhaps,” she allows at last.

It means a good deal, does that word, said in such circumstances, but I am not going to drag you through the experiences of a faithful lover, sustained by a “perhaps.” Mon Dieu! You have the privations of Dr. Nansen on his travels to read if that is the literature you admire.

No; in the words of Halfred on the eve of his nuptials with Aramatilda, “I ain't what you'd call solemn nat'rally but this here matrimonial business do make a man stop talkin' as free as he'd wish.”

I also shall stop talking, and, with the blotting-pad already in my hand, pray Heaven to grant my readers an indulgent and a not too solemn spirit.