18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Two Hundred Years Old.
SUCH is the key to the meaning
of this sombre chronicle.
In new shapes old spirits are
breathed into the world, and I
am that pale Arthur Jocelyn
whom the Elders persecuted centuries
ago, when bigotry and
superstition fell like a blight on
the Colony — I, Paul Lynde.
Bitterly has the prophecy been fulfilled. Without
my own will, and unconsciously, I have woven
the black threads of my life with the fate of
those who came of a generation that hated me
and mine.
Cecil is dead. Mark Howland sleeps in an ill-starred
city. Mary Ware is dead; and Kenneth
— the last of his race. Kenneth? Kenneth?
I think it was Reuben Walforde that went stalking
about the ends of the earth!
They are gone — the white spirits and the gray.
And the time draws near, ah, so near! when my
grim ancestor shall appear, and take me into that
darkness which awaits us all.
Again I shall behold Sir Godfrey, clad in the
garb of a by-gone age, as I beheld him that
memorable night in John Jocelyn's library.
I shall hear his echoing voice, feel the humid
touch of his hand!
* * * * * *
Listen! — no, the wind brushes the elm-tree
against the house, and the stair-case creaks with
the frost.
Heaven, how the moments whirl by!
People are dancing to dulcet music in fragrant
rooms: lovers are whispering together in shadowy
alcoves: mothers are caressing their children:
there are millions of happy souls in the world,
and I —
Listen! — I wish the wind would'nt groan so
in the flue. I wish the elm-tree would n't stand
out there, in the night, frantically tossing up its
arms like an old witch at the stake.
Only an hour, now. Only sixty minutes! I
would they were so many centuries: for life is
still sweet, still youth clings to it, and I am young,
though I am Two Hundred Years Old —
Hark! — the clock is striking!
