I had determined to waive the task of a concluding chapter, leaving to the reader’s imagination the arrangements which must necessarily take place after Lord Evandale’s death. But as I was aware that precedents are wanting for a practice which might be found convenient both to readers and compilers, I confess myself to have been in a considerable dilemma, when fortunately I was honoured with an invitation to drink tea with Miss Martha Buskbody, a young lady who has carried on the profession of mantua-making at Ganderscleugh and in the neighbourhood, with great success, for about forty years. Knowing her taste for narratives of this description, I requested her to look over the loose sheets the morning before I waited on her, and enlighten me by the experience which she must have acquired in reading through the whole stock of three circulating libraries, in Ganderscleugh and the two next market-towns. When, with a palpitating heart, I appeared before her in the evening, I found her much disposed to be complimentary.
“I have not been more affected,” said she, wiping the glasses of her spectacles, “by any novel, excepting the ‘Tale of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy’, which is indeed pathos itself; but your plan of omitting a formal conclusion will never do. You may be as harrowing to our nerves as you will in the course of your story, but, unless you had the genius of the author of ‘Julia de Roubignd,’ never let the end be altogether overclouded. Let us see a glimpse of sunshine in the last chapter; it is quite essential.”
“Nothing would be more easy for me, madam, than to comply with your injunctions; for, in truth, the parties in whom you have had the goodness to be interested, did live long and happily, and begot sons and daughters.”
“It is unnecessary, sir,” she said, with a slight nod of reprimand, “to be particular concerning their matrimonial comforts. But what is your objection to let us have, in a general way, a glimpse of their future felicity?”
“Really, madam,” said I, “you must be aware that every volume of a narrative turns less and less interesting as the author draws to a conclusion — just like your tea, which, though excellent hyson, is necessarily weaker and more insipid in the last cup. Now, as I think the one is by no means improved by the luscious lump of half-dissolved sugar usually found at the bottom of it, so I am of opinion that a history, growing already vapid, is but dully crutched up by a detail of circumstances which every reader must have anticipated, even though the author exhaust on them every flowery epithet in the language.”
“This will not do, Mr. Pattieson,” continued the lady; “you have, as I may say, basted up your first story very hastily and clumsily at the conclusion; and, in my trade, I would have cuffed the youngest apprentice who had put such a horrid and bungled spot of work out of her hand. And if you do not redeem this gross error by telling us all about the marriage of Morton and Edith, and what became of the other personages of the story, from Lady Margaret down to Goose-Gibbie, I apprise you that you will not be held to have accomplished your task handsomely.”
“Well, madam,” I replied, “my materials are so ample that I think I can satisfy your curiosity, unless it descend to very minute circumstances indeed.”
“First, then,” said she, “for that is most essential — Did Lady Margaret get back her fortune and her castle?”
“She did, madam, and in the easiest way imaginable, as heir, namely, to her worthy cousin, Basil Olifant, who died without a will; and thus, by his death, not only restored, but even augmented, the fortune of her, whom, during his life, he had pursued with the most inveterate malice. John Gudyill, reinstated in his dignity, was more important than ever; and Cuddie, with rapturous delight, entered upon the cultivation of the mains of Tillietudlem, and the occupation of his original cottage. But, with the shrewd caution of his character, he was never heard to boast of having fired the lucky shot which repossessed his lady and himself in their original habitations. ‘After a’,’ he said to Jenny, who was his only confidant, ‘auld Basil Olifant was my leddy’s cousin and a grand gentleman; and though he was acting again the law, as I understand, for he ne’er showed ony warrant, or required Lord Evandale to surrender, and though I mind killing him nae mair than I wad do a muircock, yet it ‘s just as weel ............