As the clock struck every hour, Gideon seemed to hear the fiend exclaim, “prepare.” His heart vibrated so much, that had it been skilfully placed in the mechanism, it would have regularly and accurately moved the pendulum. He counted every shade darkening on the sky, until night came on; and melancholy, if not poetical, was his farewell to the glorious sun. He was not altogether ignorant of figure and trope, to eke out his pathos, as will be seen.
“There thou art, about to disappear for ever from these delighted eyes, with thy beautiful chariot! That dark cloud is thy coachman, with a pink-coloured vest. He is now mounting, and in a moment will be ready to drive thee into the ocean, and wet thy garments, making them truly uncomfortable for thy tailor, whoever he be, to repair. He has lighted his pipe of tobacco, and puffs out the smoke to keep away the sea sickness. His drab great coat is now over him, and he is exclaiming, ‘all’s right, all’s right.’ ’Tis false, charioteer, all’s wrong, wrong. Farewell, thou orb of day. I go, where time is not measured by day—the tailor; and clad by night—his journeyman. Yet just one other peep; yes, here is thy ray upon my hand. Oh! Nelly, hast thou a glove to put over my hand, and thus confine the light for ever to be my hope. Farewell! To-morrow thou again appearest, but not for me. Perchance, as thou arisest over the finished wall, thou mayest observe my head as the cope stone. At morn, how anxiously have I removed the nightcap from my eye to behold thy charms, O sun! How beautifully dost thou gleam into the soup, and kindly reveal all the peas and beans which slily lie at the bottom of the dish. How fondly hast thou loved my needle, and even danced, with thy hundred feet, upon the point! Farewell!” and he closed the window and wept.
The speech may contain a little of the ludicrous; not so the feelings. In vain did Nelly, who had been a little consoled by the remarks of the parson’s nephew, and who had, therefore, been able to attend to cookery, set before him food the most savoury, to tempt his appetite, with what one of the signs elegantly terms “the real-original-genuine-best Ormskirk gingerbread.” As her hands spread them on the table, Gideon’s sorrow was renewed, for the thought struck him, that they would move before him no more. It was no easy matter for the good man to be resigned to the loss of his wife, just when she had become so agreeable and affectionate.
Soon Mary Mauncel entered, leaning on the arm of her cousin. She had tried all her arts to dissuade him from the expedition, and had even threatened never to speak to him again. And yet, out of pure love and care for him, and of her own accord, she had come along with him to Gideon’s house. And never had she spoken so much and so tenderly, as she did now, cautioning William, for her sake, not to be rash. Jeremiah shewed them to seats, and because there was a scarcity of chairs, mounted the table himself. Gideon had watched the motion.
“Ah! Jeremiah, I have sat there for the last time. Orders shall be sent, good broad cloth shall be spread out, but no Gideon shall be there to cut, sew, and mend.”
“Reverse the picture,” added his brother, “and change the scene. A horrible pit, at the bottom of which—”
“Nay, Jeremiah; do not make me to anticipate it. Young gentleman, how are your nerves braced for the work? Give me your hand.”
At that moment, however, the lover felt his hand touched, and detained gently by Mary, so he held out the sinister one to the tailor.