Читать книгу Mr. Oseba's Last Discovery - George W. Bell - Страница 8

Table of Contents

This, being a true story, with the slight deviations necessary to the preservation of a due sense of proportion, it is deemed proper to casually introduce the characters on whom we must chiefly rely for the truthfulness or otherwise, of a most romantic adventure.

In such an introduction, the Editor, or compiler—the “I” in these pages—necessarily appears, but to the Chronicler himself, who has no “poetic license,” we must rely for the correctness of the recital.

Though without my aid this strange story might possibly have reached the world, the manner of its coming into my hands has made me a “curtain-shifter,” as it were, in the scenes, and in this pleasing task, fidelity shall be my only guide.

I was not “journeying towards Damascus,” but being weary from many wanderings, and desirous of returning to dear old London as soon as possible, at Marseilles, I booked for Amsterdam on the fine passenger steamer Irene—the voyage, however, to be broken for a brief stay over at Lisbon.

It was midnight when we swung from our moorings and steamed out of the harbor, and, the sea being rough and I a bad sailor, I did not venture on the upper deck until nearly lunch time the following day. I was not too well. The sea was not placid, the air was damp and chill, and—well—I was not happy.

The decks were “sparsely populated,” and as I was slowly zigzagging my way along, in a sense of utter loneliness, raising my eyes, my attention was aroused by the presence of what seemed a familiar figure. It was the graceful form of a tall, well-proportioned young man. His face was pale, his head was bent forward, he leaned heavily over the starboard railing of the vessel, and I imagined that he, too, was not well. I did not recognise him, but sympathy and curiosity, and, perhaps, custom, lead me half unconsciously to his side. I said to him soothingly, “It is rather rough to-day.” He raised himself a little, leaned a little further over the ship’s railing, and made a convulsive movement. He was “not well,” but raising himself more erectly, he turned towards me slightly, and ironically said, “Thanks, so I have been informed.” The “tone” of the expression was unkind, for my motives were good and my conduct was as wise as the occasion would suggest.

His voice limped piteously, but it had something in it of old familiarity. “You?” said I. My voice also had in it to him something of old familiarity. I looked in his face. He returned my gaze. The recognition was mutual.

“Leo Bergin!” said I.

“Sir Marmaduke!” said he.

“You have come to bring unholy memories,” said I.

“And you have come to reproach me,” said he, in tones of agony I shall never forget.

“No,” said I, “Leo Bergin, I give my hand. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead.’ Look not sorrowfully over the past—it comes not again—but with resolute heart and strong hand brave the future, and thou shall find a crown or a grave. List—not another word of the past; but, Leo Bergin, what of the future?”

“Thou art kind,” said he, with bowed head, and in good Bible phrase, “but I ill deserve your generosity.”

“List,” said I again, “Leo, what of the future?”

“The future?” said he, with bowed head, downcast eye, and awfully solemn voice, “the future? Because I know the past I feign would die; because I know not the future, I am cowardly enough to live. You know, my friend, my benefactor, that I have talent, good looks, and industry, but the world,” said he more sadly, “is against me.”

Yes, I had heard before that Leo Bergin had “talent, good looks, and industry.” In fact, Leo Bergin, on a memorable occasion, had himself confessed to me as much. Ah! my brothers, what good opinions we have of ourselves. All of us, men and women, think ourselves possessed of talent, good looks and social merits; but here our self-satisfaction ends, for the dull world, whom we could so well serve, failing to appreciate us, we are left a prey to neglect, and often to despair.

Ah! my brothers, we forget that we are not impartial judges; that the world is impartial and may be just in its conclusions. How kindly we think of ourselves! In the person who readily agrees with us, what noble qualities of soul and mind we discover. But ’tis well, for conceit, foolish as it may seem, often saves us from despair.

Yes, Leo Bergin had talent, education, good looks, and industry; but Leo Bergin, I had concluded from the occasion referred to, was erratic, “a shingle short”—in fact, not “all there.”

“But, Leo,” said I, “where are you bound?”

“To h——,” said he, in phrase quite jocular, in tones almost bitterly sad.

“Ah!” said I, “pack your kit then and step off at old Cadiz, for that is on the border.”

But the bugle blew for lunch, and the association of ideas drove Leo Bergin to his cabin, and, with a sickly promise to “come later,” I was left to ponder over the strange events of life—events that often lead to such meetings; the meetings, in turn, to lead to other events, even more strange and interesting.