“Tales! Man, that’s one of the reasons I bought the place.”
Nealman needed no further urging. Evidently the old stories that almost invariably accumulate about such an ancient and famous manor-house as this, had the greatest fascination for him; and he was glad of the chance to narrate them to any listener. He lighted a cigarette: then turned to me with glistening eyes.
“Of course I don’t believe them,” he began. “Don’t get that in your head for an instant. All these old houses have some such yarns. But they surely do lend a flavor to the place—and I wouldn’t have them disproved for thousands of dollars. And one of them—the one I just referred to—surely is a corker.”
He straightened in his chair, and spoke more earnestly. “Killdare, you’re not troubled with a too-active imagination?”
“I’ll take a chance on it,” I told him.
“I’ve seen a few men, in my time, that I wouldn’t tell such a yarn to for love nor money—especially when they are doomed to stay around here for a few weeks. You won’t believe it, but some men are so nervous, so naturally credulous, that they’d actually have some unpleasant dreams about it. But I consider it one of the finest attractions of the place.
“The yarn’s very simple. About 1840, a schooner, sailing under the Portuguese flag, sailed from Rio de Janeiro. Her name was the Arganil, she had a mixed cargo, and she was bound for New Orleans. These are facts, Killdare. You can ascertain them any time from the marine records. But we can’t go much further.
“Among the crew were two brothers, Jason by name. Legend says that they were Englishmen, but what Englishmen were doing on a Portuguese ship I can’t tell you. The name, however, might easily be South-European—it appears, you remember, in Greek mythology. Now this point also has some indications of truth. There was certainly one Jason, at least, shipped as boatswain—the position of the other is considerably in doubt.
“Now we’ve got to get down to a matter of legend, yet with some substance of truth. The story goes that there was a treasure chest on the ship, the property of some immensely rich Brasilian, and that it contained certain treasures that had been the property of a Portuguese prince at the time that the court of Portugal was located in Rio de Janeiro. This was from 1808 to 1821—breaking up in a revolution just a hundred years ago. This is history, as you know. Just what was the nature of the treasure no one seems to have any idea. It was a rather small chest, so they say, bound with iron, and not particularly heavy—but it was guarded with armed men, day and night. Of course the prevailing belief is that it contained simply gold—the same, yellow, deadly stuff that built the Armada and made early American history. It might have been in the form of cups and vessels, beautiful things that had been stolen from early heathen temples—again it might have been jewels. No estimation of its value was ever made, as far as I know—except that, like all unfound-treasures, it was ‘incalculable.’