“We must think of leaving this,” said he, after a brief pause. “‘Where to?’ is the question. How would Genoa agree with you?”
“With me! Let there be no question of me.”
“Nay, but there must,” said he, eagerly. “Remember, first of all, that we are now independent of Climate, at least of all that this side of the Alps possesses; and, secondly, bethink you that you are the pilot that weathered the storm for us.”
“Happily, then,” said I, laughing, or endeavouring to laugh, “I may sing,—
‘The waves are laid, My duties paid.’
I must seek out some harbour of refuge and be at rest.’”
“But with us, Templeton—always with us,” said the old man, affectionately.
“Upon one condition, Sir Gordon—short of that I refuse.”
I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a rising emotion I threw into these words an accent of almost stern and obstinate resolution; for as he replied, “Name your condition,” his own voice assumed a tone of cold reserve.
It was full a minute before I could resume; not only was the subject one that I dreaded to approach from fear of failure, but I felt that I had already endangered my chance of success by the inopportune moment of its introduction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. As much to give myself time for a little forethought, as to provide myself with a certain impulse for the coming effort, as leapers take a run before they spring, I threw out a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before leaving England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. “I knew well,” said I, “better far than all the skill of physicians could teach, that no chance of recovery remained for me; Science had done its utmost: the machine had, however, been wound up for the last time—its wheels and springs would bear no more. Nothing remained, then, but to economise the hours, and let them glide by with as little restriction as might be. There was but one alloy to this plan—its selfishness; but when may a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to part with what comprises it?
“I came away from England, then, with that same sentiment that made the condemned captain beg he might be bled to death rather than fall beneath the axe. I would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and unruffled, even by fear—little dreaming how vain are all such devices to cheat one’s destiny, and that death is never so terrible as when life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, such has been my fate; in the calm happiness of home here—the first time I ever knew the word’s true meaning—I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful happiness where the present is tempered by the past, and hope has fewer checks, because it comes more chastened by experience. You little thought, that in making my days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be a heavy recompense.... Nay, hear me out; words of encouragement only increase my misery—they give not hope, they only awaken fresh feelings of affection, so soon to be cold for ever.”