“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. Last night there had been no time. My father's chief fear, I must tell you, is from the baneful influence of Jonathan Wild. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. . ” Just then the man’s eyes opened. 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. That really settles about that.
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