For, undoubtedly, as time went on, although Stevenson continued to "combine the face of a boy with the distinguished bearing of a man of the world," he was gradually exchanging the "streak of Puck" and the capricious unconventions of the born Bohemian, for something graver and more mature,--a tendency almost towards the didactic. "'Tis a strange world indeed," he had commented, "but there is a manifest God for those who care to look for Him." And now, "with the passing of years," he observed, "there grows more and more upon me that belief in the kindness of this scheme of things, and the goodness of our veiled God, which is an excellent and pacifying compensation." He was suffering, and in all probability would perpetually suffer, from "that sharp ferule of calamity under which we are all God's scholars till we die": but his patience was impregnable, and his desire to leave a brave example bore him constant company. "To suffer," said he, "sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable," and he prepared to enjoy with equal zest all pleasures which were still permitted to him.
As he put away his writing materials, and descended once more to his beloved piano, his father and mother came in. They were living in Bournemouth to be near their only son. The old lighthouse engineer, whose father had built the Bell Rock, who had served under his brother Alan in the building of Skerryvore, "the noblest of all extant sea-lights," who had himself erected Dhu Heartach, was now palpably failing. The spectacle of a stern and honest man slowly evacuating all that he had held of personal strength, was, to his son Louis, a poignantly pathetic one. Their disagreements had been very many and deep-rooted, dating from even before that "dreadful evening walk" in Stevenson's youth, when, "on being tightly cross-questioned," the lad who had been trained for a civil engineer, and had "worked in a carpenter's shop and had a brass foundry, and hung about wood-yards and the like," confessed that he cared for nothing but literature,--"no profession!" as his father contemptuously replied. They had differed on almost every conceivable topic open to their discussion,--yet here, in the fulness of time, they were at peace together,--the austere old man in his second childhood, and the chronic invalid who "must live as though he were walking on eggs." Innumerable ineffaceable traits of similarity bound one to the other; at bottom of all the bygone angers lay a permanent bedrock of mutual love. And perhaps the nearing vision of death which terminated all vistas for both of them, exercised its usual effect, of calm, and _laisser-faire_, and the equalisation of things: for it is probable that no man has a just sense of proportionate values until he stands in the presence of death.