And as he spoke he wiped the remains of the broken phial from the bleeding lips.
Winter has passed and summer has come again.
Winter has passed and taken with it forever and ever the last traces of that wicked spirit which plotted so much harm for Violet Mildmay and worked so much for those she loved.
All the winter through, each week, each month, justice, which will have nothing hidden or put away, went through the deeds of that dark life and made things clear.
The world soon learned how deeply it had been deceived, soon learned that Leicester Dodson was a martyr to circumstances, and that he almost deserved the reward which Violet, beautiful Violet, was going to bestow on him. Almost, we say, for no one could quite deserve that sweet boon, for that boon was herself. It soon found that the great man whom the world had delighted to honor had delighted to swindle it! That he was a murderer, rogue, a forger, and the plunderer of widows and orphans. For months curses followed him to that bourne whence none return, and Mr. Dockett has often been heard to regret that he did not stop the villain's hand when it carried the phial to his lips.
"I knew what he was going to do," Mr. Dockett would say, with a sigh; "and I thought I'd let him, because, you see, it was much quieter than having him hung! But I didn't know it was the general until Stumpy ran in and ripped up his sleeve. When I saw the 108 stamped on his arm it quite gave me a turn. For there was a reward of five hundred pounds, to say nothing of the honor of catching an 'escaped,' who was thought to be at the bottom of the sea. However, I'm very well satisfied, for Mr. Leicester's a perfect gentleman, and as for the young lady, all I say is may Heaven bless her and make her happy."
Mr. Dockett is often asked how much he pocketed by the affair, but he always declines to state. He says he does not wish to make the rest of his professional brethren dissatisfied and envious.
The winter brought trouble down to Penruddie, for the smuggling secret was out, and many a fisherman had to fly.
Job stayed and gave evidence on the inquest of the captain, but Leicester paid the fine which was inflicted, and Job is comfortable and happy.
One by one his old companions are creeping back, and, strange to say, the coastguards don't recognize them. Stumpy has turned queen's evidence and obtained a pardon, and is to be found the heart and soul of the "Blue Lion", which is still in the hands of Martha, who has abandoned smuggling and finds her temper is much improved.
Polly is Mrs. Willie Sanderson, and keeps her husband in very good order.
So Penruddie is very much as it was, and the Cedars and the Park are being done up. Some one is expected to occupy them, but at present the somebodies are elsewhere.
For it is now summer, and the evening sun is turning the rippled sea to gold.
A yacht comes dancing across the golden light into the sunset.
It is a very beautiful little vessel, and, light-hearted, from its deck come ever and anon ripples of laughter that rival the ripples of the sea.
Let us hover, like Puck, upon the sail, and look down.
There, on the deck, is a little party.
First Mr. and Mrs. Dodson and Mrs. Mildmay and Mr. Thaxton, seated in comfortable armchairs conveniently near a small table, upon which stand champagne and fruit.
Scattered near them on rugs and furs are some more friends.
It is from them that the laughter most heartily proceeds; near them are Violet and Leicester, she seated, and leaning against the mast, he lying full length and cutting the portrait of Mr. Thaxton out of orange peel.
Near him recline Bertie and Ethel – Bertie puffing a cigar with mild enjoyment, and Ethel teasing him with the end of a rope.
Swinging in a hammock up above their heads is Fitz, looking as happy as the day is long, and not at all the disappointed man. He loves Violet still, and she calls him Fitz; but it is a brotherly affection between them, and Fitz is satisfied. He will never marry, he says, but he insists upon it that if there should ever be any children round Violet's knee, that they should call him "Uncle."
Near them sits Jamie Sanderson – near, but far away, for he has a book in his hand, and he is in dreamland. He will never leave Leicester while they both live.
Mr. Thaxton, smoking his cigar, drops comfortably off to sleep, lulled by the heat and the soft laughter.
The other elderly parties are about to follow his example, when Fitz sings out:
"Pass that champagne up, will you, ladies and gentlemen? Because I'm up here, it doesn't follow that I'm above the weaknesses of other mortals. George! How happy I am! You all of you look that way inclined; and so you ought to be. Ladies and gentlemen, if there's any one of you unhappy on this happy vessel, you shouldn't be here; it isn't the place for you, and, by George! if you'll have the honesty to admit it, I'll pitch you overboard."
There is no answer, save a peal of laughter – and a piece of orange peel, thrown by Leicester, and alighting on Fitz's nose – and as that must mean that they are perfectly happy there and now we will leave them.
Long may they glide through life as they glide now, this summer's eve, doing good, loving much, and trusting to the beneficence of that Heaven whence all happiness and good things flow!