“One of the most unfortunate occurrences I ever heard of.  Well, that that is, is—­and can’t be helped.  I’d have given something (over and above the ten-and-sixpence) to have had it otherwise; but I ’spose, Jemmy, I ’spose we understand the claims of decency and humanity.”  It was the editor of the True Blue who said this.

“I ’spose we do,” answered the son sturdily, though sulkily; “but that’s the very best skit that Blank Blank ever did for us.”

“Blank Blank” was the signature under which various satirical verses appeared in the True Blue.

“Paid for, too—­ten-and-six.  Well, here goes, Jemmy.”  He took a paper from his desk, read it over with a half smile.  “One or two of the jokes in it will keep,” he observed; then, when his son nodded assent, he folded it up and threw it in the fire.  This was a righteous action.  He never got any thanks for doing it; also a certain severity that he was inclined to feel against the deceased for dying just then, he quickly turned (from a sense of justice) towards the living members of his family, and from them to their party, the “pinks” in general.  Then he began to moralise.  “Captain Walker—­and so he’s dead—­died at five o’clock this morning.  It’s very sudden.  Why Mrs. Walker was driving him through the town three days ago.”

“Yes,” answered the son; “but when a man has heart complaint, you never know where you are with him.”

A good many people in Wigfield and round it discussed that death during the day; but few, on the whole, in a kindlier spirit than had been displayed by the editor of the opposition paper.  Mrs. A’Court, wife of the vicar, and mother of Dick A’Court, remarked that she was the last person to say anything unkind, but she did value consistency.

“Everybody knows that my Dick is a high churchman; they sent for him to administer the holy communion, and he found old Mr. Mortimer there, a layman, who is almost, I consider, a Methodist, he’s so low church; and poor Captain Walker was getting him to pray extempore by his bed.  Even afterward he wouldn’t let him out of his sight.  And Dick never remonstrated.  Now, that is not what I could have hoped of my son; but when I told him so, he was very much hurt, said the old man was a saint, and he wouldn’t interfere.  ‘Well, my dear,’ I said, ’you must do as you please; but remember that your mother values consistency.’”

When Mrs. Melcombe, who, with her son and Laura, was still at Paris, heard of it, she also made a characteristic remark.  “Dear me, how sad!” she exclaimed; “and there will be that pretty bride, Mrs. Brandon, in mourning for months, till all her wedding dresses, in fact, are out of fashion.”

Mrs. Melcombe had left Melcombe while it was at its loveliest, all the hawthorns in flower, the peonies and lilies of the valley.  She chose first to go to Paris, and then when Peter did not seem to grow, was thin and pale, she decided—­since he never seemed so well as when he had no lessons to do—­that she would let him accompany them on their tour.