Nothing came of it all,
except a very offensive letter from Gregory about my ineffectiveness
and general duplicity.
Why do I venture, it may be asked, to print this dreadful sketch of a
man who may see it and recognise it? He will not see it, and for the
best of sad reasons. But on reflection I do not know that the reason is
a sad one. Gregory died rather suddenly in his lodgings a few months
later, and so the curtain came down upon rather a dismal comedy, or a
deplorable tragedy, according to one's taste in classification. The
only marvel is why the sad drama was ever put on the stage, and why it
was allowed to have so long a run. There is hope in this world for the
Prodigal, who has a sharp and evil lesson, and comes crawling home to
claim the love he had despised; but for the elder brother, with his
blameless service and his chilly heart, what hope is there for him? He
must content himself--and perhaps it is not so lean a benediction after
all--with the tender words, "Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I
have is thine."
XLIV
There has been staying with me for the last few days a perfectly
delightful person; an old man--he is nearly eighty--who is exactly
what an old man ought to be, and what one would desire to be if one
were to grow old. Old people are not as a rule a very encouraging
spectacle. One is apt to feel, after seeing old people, that it is
rather a tragic thing when life outruns activity, and to hope that one
may never have the misery of octogenarianism.
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