“A right hand, guided by an earnest soulWith a true instinct, takes the golden prizeFrom out a thousand blanks. What men call luckIs the prerogative of valiant souls—The fealty life pays its rightful kings.”
“A right hand, guided by an earnest soulWith a true instinct, takes the golden prizeFrom out a thousand blanks. What men call luckIs the prerogative of valiant souls—The fealty life pays its rightful kings.”
“A right hand, guided by an earnest soulWith a true instinct, takes the golden prizeFrom out a thousand blanks. What men call luckIs the prerogative of valiant souls—The fealty life pays its rightful kings.”
Of course I don’t mean to say that Harry and I are “rightful kings.” That is the way a poet has to put it to make it poetry, I suppose; but I do mean to say that the first part of the verse is true about us and the way we got on. And so, if we drew a prize where others get blanks, it isn’t fair to put it down to our “luck.”
But, luck or no luck, we did draw a prize, and I hope we are going to draw another. The “Royal Hotel” will never be to me what the ‘Stretford Arms’ was. There won’t be the romance about it, and perhaps it is as well, as a woman with a big business and two little children to look after hasn’t much time for romance. The romance of the ‘Stretford Arms’ was very nice though, for it enabled me to write these Tales of a Village Inn, and toask the reader to share in the joys and sorrows, the pains and pleasures, and the trials and adventures of Mary Jane Married, and—no, not settled—anything but settled.
If you could see the way this room is blocked up with boxes half packed, and how things are lying about all over the place, you wouldn’t say settled—unsettled, just at present, would be the word. Never mind; I dare say it will come all right, and in a few weeks weshallbe settled at the “Royal Hotel,” and I hope it will be a very long time before we make another move.
And now, farewell, dear reader; I must write the word at last. Harry sends you his kind regards, little Harry says “Ta-ta,” and my dear little baby girl puts her little fat hand to her mouth and blows you a kiss, and, with just one little tear of regret in her eye, Mary Jane Beckett, formerly Mary Jane Buffham, and late of the ‘Stretford Arms’ Hotel, wishes you all a long and happy life, and bids you slowly and sadly a long “Farewell.”
* * * * *
It is written, the last line. Perhaps the last line I shall ever write for print. Think kindly of me, won’t you? and let my book have a nice place in your library. I can promise you that it will be a nicer cover than the last. No grinning policeman this time, with his arm round my waist. This will be a book that I can give to my husband, and be proud of, and write his name inside—
“To my dear Harry.From his loving wife, the Authoress.”
“To my dear Harry.From his loving wife, the Authoress.”
“To my dear Harry.From his loving wife, the Authoress.”
THE END.PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
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