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Page 2
Behind the shop, where had been originally the "back parlor," in the
days when every genteel house in Chelsea had both its front and back
parlor--the latter for sitting and living in, the former for the
reception of company--sat this afternoon the proprietor, the man whose
name had stood above the shop for fifty years, the original and only
Emblem. He was--nay, he is--for you may still find him in his place,
and may make his acquaintance over a county history any day in the
King's Road--he is an old man now, advanced in the seventies, who was
born before the battle of Waterloo was fought, and can remember
Chelsea when it was full of veterans wounded in battles fought long
before the Corsican Attila was let loose upon the world. His face
wears the peaceful and wise expression which belongs peculiarly to his
profession. Other callings make a man look peaceful, but not all other
callings make him look wise. Mr. Emblem was born by nature of a calm
temperament,--otherwise he would not have been happy in his business;
a smile lies generally upon his lips, and his eyes are soft and
benign; his hair is white, and his face, once ruddy, is pale, yet not
shrunk and seamed with furrows as happens to so many old men, but
round and firm; like his chin and lips it is clean shaven; he wears a
black coat extraordinarily shiny in the sleeve, and a black silk stock
just as he used to wear in the thirties when he was young, and
something of a dandy, and would show himself on a Saturday evening in
the pit of Drury Lane; and the stock is fastened behind with a silver
buckle. He is, in fact, a delightful old gentleman to look at and
pleasant to converse with, and on his brow every one who can read may
see, visibly stamped, the seal of a harmless and honest life. At the
contemplation of such a man, one's opinion of humanity is sensibly
raised, and even house-agents, plumbers, and suburban builders, feel
that, after all, virtue may bring with, it some reward.
The quiet and warmth of the afternoon, unbroken to his accustomed ear,
as it would be to a stranger, by the murmurous roll of London, made
him sleepy. In his hand he held a letter which he had been reading for
the hundredth time, and of which he knew by heart every word; and as
his eyes closed he went back in imagination to a passage in the past
which it recalled.
He stood, in imagination, upon the deck of a sailing-ship--an emigrant
ship. The year was eighteen hundred and sixty-four, a year when very
few were tempted to try their fortunes in a country torn by civil war.
With him were his daughter and his son-in-law, and they were come to
bid the latter farewell.
"My dear--my dear," cried the wife, in her husband's arms, "come what
may, I will join you in a year."
Her husband shook his head sadly.
"They do not want me here," he said; "the work goes into stronger and
rougher hands. Perhaps over there we may get on better, and besides,
it seems an opening."
If the kind of work which he wanted was given to stronger and rougher
hands than his in England, far more would it be the case in young and
rough America. It was journalistic work--writing work--that he wanted;
and he was a gentleman, a scholar, and a creature of retired and
refined tastes and manners. There are, perhaps, some still living who
have survived the tempestuous life of the ordinary Fleet Street
"newspaper man" of twenty or thirty years ago; perhaps one or two
among these remember Claude Aglen--but he was so short a time with
them that it is not likely; those who do remember him will understand
that the way to success, rough and thorny for all, for such as Aglen
was impossible.
"But you will think every day of little Iris?" said his wife. "Oh, my
dear, if I were only going with you! And but for me you would be at
home with your father, well and happy."
Then in his dream, which was also a memory, the old man saw how the
young husband kissed and comforted his wife.
"My dear," said Claude, "if it were not for you, what happiness could
I have in the world? Courage, my wife, courage and hope. I shall think
of you and Iris all day and all night until we meet again."
And so they parted and the ship sailed away.
The old man opened his eyes and looked about him. It was a dream.
"It was twenty years ago," he said, "and Iris was a baby in arms.
Twenty years ago, and he never saw his wife again. Never again!
Because she died," he added after a pause; "my Alice died."
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