” Drummond shook his head in melancholy fashion. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. ” “It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. Without care he will die. ‘Precisely. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. See paragraph 1. He must be more or less of an age with this man.
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