University of Virginia Library

56. CHAPTER LVI.
THE END.

Marston Brent and his wife went abroad,
and spent a happy year among scenes which
Beatrice had visited indeed, but had never
really seen until now, for inward happiness
possesses a wonderful power of opening the
eyes to all forms of outward beauty. She was

pleased, too, to discover that, although Brent's
life had been more one of action than of study,
he had turned the enforced seclusion of his
forest and mountain homes to good account,
and was even better acquainted theoretically
than she was practically with that Old World
whose wondrous stories have been said and
sung from the days of Herodotus to this, when
books of travel seem to have superseded visiting-cards
as announcements of the return of
our friends and acquaintances from Outre-Mer.

But before she went abroad—nay, before she
married Brent—Beatrice fulfilled in its widest
spirit her promise to Mr. Chappelleford. The
book of Saurians was published, and although
no name but that of the philosopher appeared
upon the title-page, it was whispered among
the savans that at least half the credit of the
minute research, elaborate collocation, and
elegant and classic diction characterizing the
work was due to the unnamed editor.

The papers relating to the philological treatise
were also placed in the hands of the liter
ary friend whom Mr. Chappelleford had designated,
and we may yet expect a biography of
the “Mother of Languages,” which shall convert
us all into her devotees, although Mrs.
Brent's Sanscritian studies never have passed
beyond their most elemental stages.

Somewhere abroad, the Brents encountered
Monckton, who offered his congratulations,
and lingered some weeks in their society with
a friendly ease incompatible with bitterness if
not with constancy. If he could not forget,
he had certainly forgiven the keenest of all
wounds with which a man's self-love can be
wounded.

“All passeth but Goddis Will.” Yes, all
passeth, even the shadow; for although earthly
journeyings may fail to bring us to the sunny
places where other lives seem blooming
without pain or care, the shining hills lie full
in view beyond the shadow and beyond the
flood, and no feet are so tender, no heart so
weary, no strength so broken, that they may
not hope to win safely through, and scale
those glorious heights at last.