I was a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate had written on his forehead at his birth, “unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,” and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration and happiness!
How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing. Nothing grand or great occurred to me—my old ambitions were dead.
I only wished for a little domain of my own, where some one would look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness “in sorrow or in rest.” A kingdom of affection, where no angry word should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign, no matter what befell!
It was a dream:—you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!
Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should “laugh with myself,” as poor Parole d’Honneur used to say!
I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.—“Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!”—they would sneer.—“Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believe that! Can the leopard change his spots?”—and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,—“when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he.”—Oh yes, I had little doubt what their charitable judgment would be!
Still, the thought of these people’s opinions did not oppress me much; for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms—ignoring all my former social enormities.—Their tune would be slightly different then!
It would be—“Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.—His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?—Pooh! we won’t speak of those now:—only the hot blood of youth, you know—signs of an ardent disposition—we all have our faults;”—and so on.
No, I was not thinking much of “society’s” opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued. They believed in me still:—was I worthy of it?
I thought not.