"Well, as touching that, sir," said Poyntz, taking his pipe out of his mouth and looking at it carefully, "ye mustn't think of Agatha just the same as of the fishermen's girls you meet round about. Good, honest girls they all are, I'm saying naught against that; but Agatha, d'ye see, is a bit different. Ye'll maybe think it queer I should say it, sir; but say it I will that Agatha is a lady. She may live in our house, and put up with our ways--nay, and love us too, which sure I am she does; but all the same, if ye notice, she don't speak the same as me and the old woman do, nor she don't think the same neither. She's built on other lines, as I may say--a clipper yacht, while we're but fishing smacks, or trading schooners at best. And that being so as it is, the young fellows of our neighbourhood don't find they've got much show alongside of her somehow. They're afraid of her, that's the long and short of it. Not but she treats 'em kind enough, ye understand, as a lady should; but 'tis the kindness of a lady, and not of an equal, and there's not one of 'em staunch enough to hold out against it. And how be they're fine lads, many of them, I can't truly say as I'm sorry for it, if so as Agatha is content."

"Nor can I," I echoed to myself, with devout earnestness. "She does seem of a different stock from most I see here," I said aloud. "I have seen women somewhat like her at Copenhagen; though I don't know whether I should have thought of that if I hadn't happened to say something in Danish, yesterday, and she answered me in the same language."

"Did she now!" said Poyntz, tipping forward his hat and scratching the back of his head. "And if I might ask it, sir, how came ye to speak Danish your own self?"

"My family was Danish before I was born; and I was taught the language almost before I knew English. Our name used to be Feuerberg; but we've translated it since we've emigrated, you see."

"Ay, surely--Feuerberg," said Poyntz, puffing his pipe preoccupiedly.

We walked on for awhile in silence. So great was my desire that the evidence I had been arranging in my mind should be borne out by the facts, that I was almost afraid to put the matter definitely to the proof; while Poyntz, on the other hand, was evidently taken by surprise, and had not got his ideas quite settled. At length, however, I thought I would hazard one hint more.

"I've been thinking of that yarn you were spinning yesterday afternoon--in fact, I believe I dreamt of it last night; and I should imagine that the little yellow-haired girl, if she grew up, would have looked enough like Agatha to be her sister--or her mother, at any rate."

"And I've been thinking, sir, of the accident that stopped me from finishing that there yarn ye speak of, and of the hearty thanks I owe ye for the stout heart and ready hand that saved my Peter. But thanks is easily said; and I mean more than words come to. I'd not have ye suppose as I'd give all trust and confidence to a man just because he's done a brave act for me and mine. But as I told you once afore, and speaking out man to man, I like the looks of ye, and ever did; and seeing as how ye've found out a good bit of our little secret already, and seem like you'd an interest to know more of it; for that, and likewise because of another thing, as I've just found out myself, and it may be as important as any--well, I'll tell ye what about Agatha there is to tell."

At this moment, however, we pa.s.sed round a clump of oak trees, and found ourselves right at the entrance of the little gorge where I had had my adventure the night before. Poyntz halted, and fixed his eyes gravely upon the scene for several moments. "Ay, the same old harbour," said he; "it's changed a bit now, but it brings it all back to me the last time I was here. This is the Laughing Mill, Mr. Feuerberg. And this here is the Black Oak, and here is poor Gloam's grave, d'ye see? with the bit of gray stone a-sticking out of the end of it."

"Why was he buried here?"

"Well, 'twas his wish; that's all. He was crazed the last years of his life, with grieving on the death of the young girl as he'd picked up on the beach, that I was telling you of. A sad thing it was altogether. She went wrong, d'ye see, with the fellow David, the Scholar's brother, and was drowned here along with him; but how that came to pa.s.s was never rightly known. 'Tis thought the Scholar had meant for to marry the girl himself. And so would David have married her, I doubt, if he'd known what I know."

"About the family?"

"Ay, sir, that. Ye maybe 'll remember the iron box as I picked up?

Well, I didn't tell anyone about it then, not even the Scholar; and soon after the night of the storm I shipped for Rio, and was away a matter of two years. When I came back I heard as how David was thick with the girl--Swanhilda they called her. Then I opened the box, not having done it before, and found papers in it telling who she was, and that folks of hers were living in Germany, having emigrated there from Denmark; and from what I could make out--for 'twas in a foreign lingo, and I was forced to borrow a lexicon to it--it seemed likely as how they was well off. Now, I had my opinion of David, that he was a worthless sort of a chap, though clever and handsome; so thinks I, I won't tell him of this, for if so be as I do, he'll wed the girl in the hope of money, and not for true love of her, who was worthy the love of better than he. But what I'll do, I'll write to those her folks in Germany, telling them as how she's here; and when they come, then they can do for her as they find best, and it'll be out of my hands. And so I did, but had never an answer, why I don't know. But it never came in my mind, sir, that the fellow David would ever be so black a scoundrel as to lead the poor innocent girl wrong. How be, when he had done it, thinks I, I'll tell him of her folks now, because now the best can happen will be that they marry, though the best is bad enough; and if I tell him, maybe he'll make her an honest woman, as the saying is. And tell him I did, with a piece of my mind touching my thought of him, into the bargain. And he promised me as he'd go and make it right the next day--this being spoke in the town above here, whither I'd gone for to see him. And it can't be said but what he kept his word; only he and she was drowned in the night, and crushed under that there wheel, as never has turned since, to this day."

"What became of her baby--she had a baby?"

"Ay, and so she did, sir. Well, 'twas cared for by the housekeeper--she being grandmother to it and so having first right, the more as the Scholar was crazed, though not dangerous, but mild and melancholy-like.

But in years the old woman she came to the poor-house, and there died; and I took the baby, and gave her what best I had to give, and better schooling than the la.s.ses care for hereabouts. And as luck would have it, an elderly woman of Danish blood being come by a chance to the village, I got her to be nurse to the little one, and so grew up to a knowledge of her native tongue, d'ye see, and the fairy tales and such like thereto belonging. And--ay, I see you've guessed it long already, sir--that's Agatha."

I had intended relating my vision to Mr. Poyntz on the spot where it occurred; but I know not what reluctance prevented me. It was too solemn and inexplicable an experience to bear discussion so soon. So, instead of that, I told him, as we trudged homewards together, the history of the Feuerberg family, and how all tended to ratify my conviction that Agatha and I were cousins, though far removed. And I may remark here that he and I between us had afterwards no difficulty (what with his doc.u.ments and my knowledge) in establishing the relationship beyond a doubt. "But," I added, as we stood on the brow of the slope overlooking the old house, and saw Agatha appear round the corner and kiss her hand to us, "but she and I are the last of our race, and there is no great fortune awaiting us, that I know of. Only, Mr. Poyntz, I love her with my whole heart; if she can love me, will you trust her to me?"

"Nay, ye mustn't ask me," replied the ancient mariner, grasping my hand, with tears in his old blue eyes. "I doubt she loves you well, already.

And so do we all, for ye're a man, all be a quiet one. 'Twill be hard parting with her, as has been sunshine to us this many a year; but ye'll bring her to see the old folks, as time serves; and I'm bold for to believe ye'll be as happy as the day is long."

It is twenty years since then, and old Jack Poyntz's prophecy has proved true. My wife is wont to say, with a smile in her dark eyes, that our prosperity is due to the restored virtue of the pearl-sh.e.l.l necklace, which still rests upon her bosom. To me, however, the necklace seems but as the symbol of the true love whose radiance has blessed our lives, and brought us better luck than any witchcraft can bestow.

CALBOT'S RIVAL.

I.

The bitter cold weather out of doors made the cosy glow of my little library even more than usually grateful. I had carried the warm and bright antic.i.p.ation of it close-b.u.t.toned under my top-coat throughout my cold drive in the hansom from the South-Western Railway Station to my rooms on the Thames Embankment. But now, as I stepped in and shut the door behind me, I found I had done it less than justice.

The four comfortable walls gave a broad smile of welcome, which was mult.i.tudinously repeated from the well-known back of every beloved book. Softly gleamed the Argand burner from the green-topped study table; hospitably flickered the blazing Wallsend from the wide-mouthed grate; seductive was the invitation extended me by padded easy-chair, fox-skin hearthrug, and toasted slippers; crisp was the greeting of the evening's _Pall Mall_ lying on the table; and solid the promise of the latest _Contemporary_, containing, as I knew, my article on "Unrecognisable Truths in their Relation to Non-existent Phenomena."

Bethinking myself, moreover, of the decanter of matchless old port-wine in the right-hand cupboard of the table, and of the box of prime Cabanas, made to my own order in Habana, in the drawer on the left, I was not so much disposed to envy Calbot his late betrothal to the beautiful Miss Burleigh, the news whereof he had triumphantly poured into my bachelor ears a week or two before.

"Never mind, Drayton, old fellow," I muttered to myself, as I pushed off my boots and slid my feet into the toasted slippers; "what matter though love, courtship, and marriage be not for thee? Thou hast yet thy luxuries"--here I sank slowly into my easy-chair, "thy creature comforts"--here I got out the wine and the cigars, "and thy beloved offspring!"--here I glanced at "Unrecognisable Truths," &c., printed on the cover of the _Contemporary_.

While I am pouring out and tasting a mellow gla.s.s of port, let me briefly recall what and whence I am.

Snugness, comfort, and privacy are my _desiderata_. My visible possessions must be few, intrinsically valuable, and so disposed as to lie within the scope of two or three paces and an outstretched arm. My being a bachelor (and at the age of forty, I think I may add a confirmed one) enables me to indulge these and other whims conveniently and without embarra.s.sment.

My forefathers kept large establishments and had big families--and plenty of bother and discomfort into the bargain. But when my turn came, I sold out everything (except a few old heirlooms, and a part of the library, and an ancestral portrait or two), put the cash proceeds in the Funds, and myself, with my literary tastes and aesthetic culture, into the rooms which I now occupy. I might live in a much more grandiose style if I pleased, but in my opinion I am very well off as I am. I can find my way to Freemasons' Tavern on occasions; my essays are a power in the philosophic and theologic worlds; and I can count on a friend or two worth their weight in gold, morally, mentally, and materially. Poor Calbot, to be sure--but more of him anon.

That is old Dean Drayton's portrait, over the mantelpiece--taken one hundred and fifty years ago: an ancestor and namesake of mine. He wrote a pamphlet on witchcraft, or something of that sort, which made a stir in its day. I had thoughts of entering the ministry myself a long while ago; I think it was about the time of my engagement to Miss Seraphine Angell--the Bishop of Maresnest's daughter. But when she jil---- when the affair was discontinued I had second thoughts, ending in the resolve to let both women and the ministry severely alone for the future. So the name of Drayton dies with me.

There is, I fancy, at once a curious similarity and dissimilarity between the Dean and his descendant. For one thing, we are both of us singularly liable to be made confidants of delicate subjects; with this difference, however, that whereas the Dean is--or was--an old busybody (I am quoting history, not my private judgment), my natural tendency is not only to mind my own business, but to tell other people to mind theirs. It's no use, though--they only babble the more; and were I to lose all my fortune, I could, by turning black-mailer, ensure a permanent income twice as large as the one I have now.

Another thing. The Dean was an alchemist--so tradition says; and his descendant has a marked taste for scientific subjects, though not of the occult kind. One of the family heirlooms, by-the-way, was a monument of the Dean's alchemic skill; it was a large sealed vase or phial, ornamented with cabalistic figures and inscriptions, and affirmed to contain the veritable Elixir Vitae, manufactured after years of labour by the old gentleman, and corked up and put away for future use. It unfortunately happened, however, that he was killed by an upset of his coach, away from home; and the vase remained sealed ever afterwards. I have often thought of taking a little out and a.n.a.lysing it; for even should it turn out not to be the water of life, I thought it might possibly resolve itself into a bottle of excellent brandy. But I delayed too long; and at last the mysterious phial very unexpectedly a.n.a.lysed itself, and dissipated itself at the same moment--but, again, let me not antic.i.p.ate.

II.

I finished my first gla.s.s of wine, poured out another, and taking up the _Contemporary_ turned to the masterly discussion of "Unrecognisable Truths," &c. Before I had reached the close of the opening period, however, I heard the postman's knock.

I ought to have mentioned that I had been down to Richmond that afternoon--an unusual thing for me to do at that time of year. But the fact was that a distant connection of mine had died a short time before, and his effects were announced to be sold at auction. I had reason to believe that among these effects were some old relics of my family--doc.u.ments and so forth--which I was interested to recover; indeed, but that some foolish quarrel or other had parted my relative and me years ago, I might doubtless have had them at any time for the asking. Of the precise nature of the doc.u.ments in question I was not precisely informed; Armstrong--such was my relative's name--had taken care not to enlighten me on the subject. When I read the announcement of his death in _The Times_ I had half expected that he might have bequeathed me the old things; but it turned out that he had made no will at all, having, as it appeared, no very great property to dispose of.

He was a queer fellow, and came of a queer family; half insane I always considered them; and I know they were suspected of witchcraft as long ago as the time of our old Dean. Nay, the Dean himself was whispered to have been the least bit overshadowed at that epoch, owing, I understand, to one fussy habit he had of encouraging confidences. One of these Armstrong witches had communicated some devilish secret or other to the reverend gentleman, I suppose, and thus brought ill-repute upon him.

However, the Dean was no fool, and got out of the sc.r.a.pe by writing that pamphlet on witchcraft.

Well, I was about to say that when I heard of the sale I resolved to run over to Richmond and see what I could pick up. I got there just in time to see the last lot knocked down. It was shockingly stupid of me to have mistaken the hour--such a cold day, too, and I so unaccustomed to running about the country at that time of year. But there was no help for it; I had to return as wise as I started, and the poorer by the loss of my temper and expectations. I was beginning to get in a good humour again, however, what with my fire, and my cigar, and my article on "Truths," &c, and partly, no doubt, by reason of the genial effect of that old port-wine; besides, I am by no means of a sour disposition, naturally; when all of a sudden came the postman's knock, making me start so that the ash of my cigar fell on the open page of the _Contemporary_ and scorched a hole in it. Postmen have always been a horror to me; I have never enjoyed receiving letters since the date of a certain missive from--from someone who is now the wife of another man; and on this particular evening I was more than commonly averse to any such interruption. I laid my book on my knees, leaned back in my chair, and blew an irritated cloud of smoke towards the painted countenance of my ecclesiastical ancestor over the fireplace. It curled and twisted about his respectable visage, until I could almost have believed that he winked one eye and moved his ancient lips as if to speak.

The servant brought in a square packet done up in brown wrapping-paper, and sealed in half-a-dozen places. It was about the size and shape of the magazine I had been reading--a little thicker, perhaps, and heavier.

I put my name to the receipt accompanying the parcel, and the servant went out.

At first I was disposed to let the thing lie unopened till the next day, being well a.s.sured that it would not repay examination: and I actually did put it aside and attempt to resume my reading as though no interruption had occurred. But I found it impossible to get on, or to fix my thoughts upon anything except just that parcel. What could be in it? Who could have sent it? I looked at the direction, but could make nothing out of that; it was written in an ordinary business hand, quite characterless and non-committal. I felt it carefully all over; it was stiffer than ordinary paper, but not hard like wood. Meanwhile I glanced up at my pictured ancestor, and was struck with the expression of anxious interest which appeared to have come over his features. Perhaps he knew what the packet contained; or more probably his ruling pa.s.sion of curiosity, strong in death, was making his old painted fingers itch to break the seals and take a peep at the mystery. The idea provoked me, and with a sudden impulse I held the packet out over the blazing Wallsend, two-thirds minded to drop it in. But the next moment I was more provoked at my own childish folly. I drew the thing back, took my penknife from my pocket, and cut the strings that tied it. Unwrapping the paper, there was disclosed to view a very antique-looking leather case or cover--a pocketbook or portfolio to all appearance. I undid the worn strap that fastened it, and it fell open, showing a number of leaves of musty parchment, written over with a quaint and crabbed chirography, such as could not have been in vogue for a good deal more than a century, to say the least.

III.

I am something of an antiquary, and not entirely without experience of MS. older even than this appeared to be. Having convinced myself by a cursory inspection that the matter was worth looking into, I lost no time in composing myself to its perusal.

It was written in Latin--a fortunate circ.u.mstance, since there was none of the difficulty attendant upon old-fashioned bad spelling to contend with. The substance of the writing consisted, so far as I was able to make out, of extracts from a number of private letters, supplemented by pa.s.sages from the pages of a journal and by occasional observations made apparently in the transcriber's own person. The combination formed a tolerably consecutive and logical history of three individuals--a woman and two men--who lived and loved and hated with the antiquated vehemence of a century and a half ago.

An odd circ.u.mstance which was immediately noticeable in the compilation was a systematic omission of the names of all the actors in the events narrated. A blank s.p.a.ce of some length was left for each one, as though the writer had intended filling them in afterwards, but, for whatever cause, had failed to do so. Even the scribe himself--he was a friend or confidential adviser, as it seemed, of the princ.i.p.al figure in the narrative--had suffered himself to remain as nameless as the rest.

This omission affected me strangely. So far from alienating my interest, it greatly augmented it; and although the body of the writing was couched in terms sufficiently dry and matter-of-fact, the blank s.p.a.ces gave rein to the imagination, and lent the story a present and almost a personal vitality and significance. It almost seemed to me that the matter was, in some way or other, my individual concern--that I was, or had been, involved in the incidents here set forth, and had still to look forward to the catastrophe. The potent port, I fancy, must have a little o'ercrowed my spirit; but I believe I ascribed it, at the same time, to the peculiar influence exerted over me by the portrait of my reverend ancestor. He seemed positively to be alive, and preparing to come down from his frame and take the MS. into his own possession.

I spent a long time in trying to find out whence the MS. came, and why it had been sent to me. But to this problem there was no apparent clue--no tangible evidence, external or internal. Of course I was sure that the secret lay in the blank s.p.a.ces; and was half inclined to cut the knot by filling them up with my own name and with those of the first three friends of mine that happened to come into my head. However, after quite working myself into a fever, and ruining the flavour of my Cabana by letting it go out and then relighting it, I finally contented myself by stopping the pregnant gaps with the first four letters of the alphabet; and thus furnished forth, I buckled earnestly and steadily to my work, progressing so rapidly that in less than three hours' time I had mastered the whole narrative.

It was an unpleasant story, certainly, but there was nothing particularly weird or remarkable, after all, in the incidents related.

From a literary point of view, it was greatly lacking in point and completeness; for though it ended with the death of the chief character and the marriage of the other two, yet the interest of the reader advanced beyond the written limits, and demanded a more definite conclusion. Things were left at such loose ends, in spite of death and marriage, that it was hard not to believe that more remained behind.

In the heated and excited condition of my imagination, I felt strongly tempted to s.n.a.t.c.h up my pen and improvise an ending on my own responsibility.

The longer I mused over the matter the more convinced did I become that all had not been told. Moreover, I could almost fancy that I had some occult perception of what the true and ultimate conclusion really was; nay, even that the authorship of this very MS., which had been penned considerably more than a hundred years before I was born, was nevertheless mystically my own. I repeat, there seemed to be something of myself in it; and the events had an inexplicable sort of familiarity to my mind, as though they were long forgotten, rather than now known for the first time. And all the while that alchemic progenitor of mine kept up his mysterious winking and nodding.