CHAPTER XXII. Retrospect Concluded.
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It was a pleasant evening of the early southern spring,
and the old Cavalier sat in his arm-chair, on the piazza
fronting towards the broad river, breathing, but not
enjoying the balmy breeze that gently curled the lazy
waters. But those who remembered him as he once
was would scarcely have known him now. Disease
and sorrow make sad work with age. He had heard
of the death of his son, and soon after was seized with
a severe fit of the gout, which, in its vagrant ramblings,
had threatened the vital parts. Though partially
recovered, he was weak in body and sorrowful
in heart. Remorse, too, added its sting of scorpions,
for he could not help reproaching himself with having
been at least accessory to the death of his only son by
his causeless antipathy to the Puritan's daughter.
Gregory Moth, who now sympathised too deeply with
his old master ever to play upon his foibles—if grief
had left him any—was standing near him, when,
after a long pause of deep thought, the old Cavalier
thus said to his ancient dependent, in a feeble, trembling
voice:
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“Gregory, do you know what day this is?”
“The tenth of May, sir,” answered Gregory.
“Yes, I know that—but do you know who was
born this day?”
“Master Langley, sir,” said Gregory, hesitatingly.
“Yes, you are right, Gregory. We used to keep
this day merrily. It was once a day of joy, but now
a day of sorrow. It is now only the birth-day of the
dead, and should be kept not by merry ringings of
bells, but doleful tollings, telling of the departure of
some one to his long home.” He paused awhile, and
then suddenly resumed. “But perhaps he is not
dead. It is not certain that he is dead. Perhaps he
may yet live, for as yet we know nothing but by report,
and I cannot help sometimes thinking I may yet
see and bless him before I die.”
Gregory cherished no such hope; but he could not
find it in his heart to aid in extinguishing the last
spark in the bosom of his master.
“There is nothing certain in this life, sir, but
death, and nothing more uncertain than rumor. The
report we have heard came from no one knows who,
and from no one knows where. The vessel was lost,
that's certain; but it is not certain all on board were
lost with her. He was a good swimmer, and may
have got ashore only to be captured by the savages
along the coast. If so, it is no wonder you never
heard from him. He may be yet alive and return.”
This suggestion seemed to reanimate the old Cavalier,
and he exclaimed, eagerly, “True, Gregory,
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true. Why have I not thought of this before? I will
send in pursuit of him. I will hire a vessel and go
myself. I will scour the country far and near. I—
I—” and here he sank back exhausted in his chair,
panting for breath.
At this moment Gregory descried a boat crossing
the river, paddled by two negroes, with a third person
sitting at the stern. The boat approached the shore
opposite to the house; as she struck the land, the man
in the stern leapt out, and sped towards the house in
all haste. It was still bright twilight, and Gregory at
once recognised the person approaching. He began to
mutter almost unintelligibly, “Master! Master! he is
coming—he—he is here. M—M—Master Langley
is—”
“Who did you say?” asked the Cavalier, feebly.
“Who is come—did you not say something of
Langley? Speak, varlet, who is coming or who is
come?”
“It is I, father,” cried Langley, grasping his
trembling hand. It is your son come back to receive
your blessing.”
The old Cavalier recognised the voice of his son,
and opened his arms to receive him. He could not
bless him, for his voice was gone. But he pressed
him in his arms, and old as he was, shed tears of joy.
The meeting with his mother need not be described.
It was like that of a mother of the old patriarchs, welcoming
the son of her affections, who was dead but is
alive again.
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Now all was life and joy under the roof of the old
Cavalier, who became once more splenetic, and Gregory
logical. In short they were at least four times
as happy as they would have been had they never
been miscrable. Among the dregs of the cup of calamity
are found the grains of gold dust, that enrich
us ever afterwards, if we make a right use of them.
But we cannot dwell on this picture, which indeed
soon faded; for we are impatient to return to our
heroine, who was left in such imminent jeopardy.
Suffice it to say that grief treads on the heels of joy,
even as joy does on those of sorrow. The bucket that
goes down the well empty comes up full, and that
which comes up full goes down empty. So rolls this
changing world, and so let it roll, since all is for the
best, as wise ones say.
The light that flashed from the old Cavalier on the
return of his lost child was as the last ray of the sun
when it sinks behind the hills. His old enemy, the
gout, roused up by the agitation of the enfeebled mind
and wasted body, made a second inroad, and took possession
of the citadel of life. He struck the victim on
the head and the blow was mortal. The old Cavalier
had reached the great Inn, where all the travellers of
the earth sooner or later take up their last night's
lodging. Let him rest in peace and no one disturb
his ashes.
After all due sacrifices to filial duty, Langley took
occasion to intimate to his mother his intention of
making another attempt to see Miriam Habingdon.
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That excellent woman, who had a strange habit of
forgetting that important being, self, at once acquiesced;
and leaving Gregory, who, on this occasion,
grievously anathematized the Crop-ears, to manage
affairs out of doors, he set forth on his pilgrimage,
as usual, by sea. Arriving safely at Boston, he lost no
time in proceeding on his journey, which he accomplished
without accident, just in time to see Miriam
in a similar predicament with that from which he
was rescued by the philanthropy of Skipper Tienhoven.
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Paulding, James Kirke, 1778-1860 [1849], The puritan and his daughter, volume 2 (Baker & Scribner, New York) [word count] [eaf316v2].
