And the man？ With so wild a face that busy and selfishLondon stands to gaze after him he hurries to his lodgings，bolts the door and throws himself upon the bed. Thelatent feelings of years break out； his feeble mind acquiresa brief energy from their strength； all the miserablestrangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance， andhe cries out passionately， “Wakefield， Wakefield！ You aremad！” Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situationmust have so moulded him to itself that， considered inregard to his fellow-creatures and the business of life，he could not be said to possess his right mind. He hadcontrived—or， rather， he had happened—to disseverhimself from the world， to vanish， to give up his place andprivileges with living men without being admitted amongthe dead. The life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. Hewas in the bustle of the city as of old， but the crowd sweptby and saw him not； he was， we may figuratively say， alwaysbeside his wife and at his hearth， yet must never feel thewarmth of the one nor the affection of the other. It wasWakefield’s unprecedented fate to retain his original shareof human sympathies and to be still involved in humaninterests， while he had lost his reciprocal influence onthem. It would be a most curious speculation to trace outthe effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellectseparately and in unison. Yet， changed as he was， he wouldseldom be conscious of it， but deem himself the same manas ever； glimpses of the truth， indeed， would come， butonly for the moment， and still he would keep saying， “Ishall soon go back，” nor reflect that he had been saying sofor twenty years.
I conceive， also， that these twenty years would appearin the retrospect scarcely longer than the week to whichWakefield had at first limited his absence. He would lookon the affair as no more than an interlude in the mainbusiness of his life. When， after a little while more， heshould deem it time to re-enter his parlor， his wife wouldclap her hands for joy on beholding the middle-aged Mr.
Wakefield. Alas， what a mistake！ Would Time but awaitthe close of our favorite follies， we should be young men—all of us—and till Doomsday.
One evening， in the twentieth year since he vanished，Wakefield is taking his customary walk toward thedwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty night ofautumn， with frequent showers that patter down uponthe pavement and are gone before a man can put up hisumbrella. Pausing near the house， Wakefield discernsthrough the parlor-windows of the second floor the redglow and the glimmer and fitful flash of a comfortable fire.
On the ceiling appears a grotesque shadow of good Mrs.
Wakefield. The cap， the nose and chin and the broad waistform an admirable caricature， which dances， moreover，with the up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost toomerrily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instanta shower chances to fall， and is driven by the unmannerlygust full into Wakefield’s face and bosom. He is quitepenetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand wet andshivering here， when his own hearth has a good fire towarm him and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coatand small-clothes which doubtless she has kept carefully inthe closet of their bedchamber？ No； Wakefield is no suchfool. He ascends the steps—heavily， for twenty years havestiffened his legs since he came down， but he knows it not.
—Stay， Wakefield！ Would you go to the sole home that isleft you？ Then step into your grave. —The door opens. Ashe passes in we have a parting glimpse of his visage， andrecognize the crafty smile which was the precursor of thelittle joke that he has ever since been playing off at hiswife’s expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed the poorwoman！ Well， a good night’s rest to Wakefield！
This happy event—supposing it to be such—could onlyhave occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We willnot follow our friend across the threshold. He has left usmuch food for thought， a portion of which shall lend itswisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. Amid theseeming confusion of our mysterious world individuals areso nicely adjusted to a system， and systems to one anotherand to a whole， that by stepping aside for a moment a manexposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever.
Like Wakefield， he may become， as it were， the outcast ofthe universe.
