Chapter Twenty.
A Retrospect and Farewell.
It is fifty years ago and some months since that rainy, bloody, flame-lit October night. And now this cold, wintery, blustering midnight, I—the Bob Tregellin of my story—sit writing this concluding chapter.
There is a coal-fire glowing hot in the grate. There are shelves and shelves of books; easy-chairs sprawling their indolent figures here and there; a curled-up bunch of fur purring in one; an old black setter-dog dreaming—as I can see by the whine in his quick breathing and the kicking of his outstretched legs—on a bearskin rug before the fire; and a circle of bright light from a well-shaded lamp falls about my table. Yes—but I shall get up now for a minute and take down the old musket and dog-collar, the sight of which always vividly recalls those happiest months of my life—Fifty Years Ago.
As I replace them the storm without comes in a heavier, fiercer gust. I hear it rush in a whirl up the street. I see it almost lift the heavy curtains over the window, as if it would come in and rest itself. I hear it whistling through all the cracks and keyholes of the house—whistling dismally. Its voices, and the rumbling of a hack in some neighbouring street, remind me of storms I have heard, lying comfortably in my snug attic bed in the old house on the cape—the wind and the waves dashing up the rocky shore.
That strong whiff disturbed pussy’s and “the Captain’s” (so I have called my old setter friend) nap, for puss stands up on her morocco bed and arches her back like a horseshoe, and then springs, with a jolted-out “mew–r–r–r,” right on my table, and proceeds to walk over this manuscript, carrying her tail up as if she wanted to light it by the gas and beg me then to touch it to my pipe and stop scribbling. So I shall presently. And the Captain strolls up to lay his cold nose on my knee, slowly wag his silky tail, and look kindly into my face with those soft, big eyes, as if he would say, “Come, master, don’t be low-spirited.”
You are right, old fellow! I was somewhat sad about leaving the pleasant companionship I have held through my pen with brothers and friends of the old time, and a goodly number of those who are young now, while I am so no longer, except in memory and heart. Youth has come back with these pages, and perhaps you are tired with me, but I—I shall never tire of the young—the glorious companionship of the pure, merry, brave hearts that look undaunted and without suspicion on the great road stretching far into the Future, and fading only to reappear in mirages of splendour in a brilliant sky.