Chapter XXIV: Conclusion

Thus they were all at rest at last—they who had loved, and they who had hated; the years had passed by, and brought peace with them—peace to the dead—peace to the living.

As for Brian Drewitt, who is a good landlord and a faithful steward, he can think over the past now without anguish—without despair.

There was once a time in his life when, had any one foretold that into so quiet a haven his soul could ever drift, he would have derided the idea, and scoffed it to scorn; there was once a time when he lived but for vengeance—once—but that was gone.

Like a tale that was told—like a watch in the night—like a storm which was spent, so the great thirst for revenge had died out, and left, it might be, a still greater grief, but a more holy feeling behind.

The draught he had once panted and sickened for—the power to ruin Maxwell—to hurl him from his pinnacle of worldly greatness into the very depths of poverty—never slackened his feverish thirst, it is true; but he had drained another goblet to the dregs, and found at the bottom, bitterness—in its sweetness, death.

Well, it was all over now; the desire, the sin, the remorse—the fever which had once dried up his very blood—which had burnt and consumed him—which had eaten into his heart and torn at his vitals, had subsided; and he now looked back at the days and the years of his awful sickness as one might who, having recovered from the frenzy of madness, tries to recall the sensations, and the events and the phases, and the once great leading passion of his lunacy.

So he looked back from a safe and sure haven at last, over the waves of that troublous ocean where he had waged so unequal a fight; where he had seen his purest and best hopes shipwrecked; where he had beheld _her_ go down amongst the billows, never to rise till eternity again; where he had struck out madly to reach his enemy; where after years he stood by the shore watching Maxwell sink lower and lower in the flood, proclaiming with his last breath that life had not been to him all happiness—that somewhere, or all through, he had made a great mistake.

The storm had swept by, but it had left traces behind it—such traces as, that wife, nor child, nor friend, ever after saw Brian Drewitt laugh.

He said he was well and happy; and so he was; but such passions as had dwelt in his breast are enemies who never quit a man without leaving tracks of sorrow and traces of sin, long deep scars and ugly furrows behind them, that not even the soft caresses of his loving wife, the sunshine of domestic happiness could entirely heal.

There was a shade, even to that bright sunshine; for long after his lips had ceased to pronounce her name; when to mere casual observers the sore seemed healed, the wound cicatrized; when children climbed his knee, and young tongues called him father, and tiny hands clutched his hair, and little essayists in the sublime mystery of walking came toddling towards him, forcing the grave, stern face to relax and smile—Brian Drewitt was still weeping at heart for her who had been his mother.

Whenever he visited London, he often took long morning walks alone, and by his resolute persistency in refusing her companionship his sister knew whither he was gone.

In one direction he invariably turned his steps—to that churchyard where, as I have said, the setting sun casts its departing rays on the graves of the loved and lost.

In that churchyard there is still one little piece of ground kept bright and beautiful by the living, in remembrance of the dead; and beside that grave Brian Drewitt will stand motionless, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the only inscription except her name which the white marble bears: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

THE END.

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December 1883.

Tauchnitz Edition.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

132 He never seemed to have courage He never seemed to have courage
expect when he except when he

202 increased, and very facility increased, and every facility
afforded him for pushing afforded him for pushing

270 bare of foliage, but there were bare of foliage, but there were
still enough leaver still enough leaves

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in 1^{st}).