I myself
often visited the room he had appropriated, and would sit for an hour
watching those fathomless eyes while I tried to make head or tail of
his discourse. When we were alone, my wife and I used to speculate
at times on his probable profession. Was he a merchant?--an aged
mariner?--a tinker, tailor, beggarman, thief? We could never decide,
and he never disclosed.
Then the awakening came. I sat one day in the chair beside his,
wondering as usual. I had felt heavy of late, with a soreness and
languor in my bones, as if a dead weight hung continually on my
shoulders, and another rested on my heart. A warmer colour in the
Stranger's cheek caught my attention; and I bent forward, peering
under the pendulous lids. His eyes were livelier and less profound.
The melancholy was passing from them as breath fades off a pane of
glass. _He was growing younger_. Starting up, I ran across the
room, to the mirror.
There were two white hairs in my fore-lock; and, at the corner of
either eye, half a dozen radiating lines. I was an old man.
Turning, I regarded the Stranger. He sat phlegmatic as an Indian
idol; and in my fancy I felt the young blood draining from my own
heart, and saw it mantling in his cheeks. Minute by minute I watched
the slow miracle--the old man beautified. As buds unfold, he put on
a lovely youthfulness; and, drop by drop, left me winter.
I hurried from the room, and seeking my wife, laid the case before
her.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92