“‘Tell my soul, with sorrow laden,’ where have you been?”
He aroused a little, smiled, and pointing to the package, gaspingly said, “It is all there, all there, and I—well, I have been to ‘Symmes’ Hole,’”—and when I looked again upon that placid face, the soul of Leo Bergin had sailed for the other “Port.”
ADJUSTING THE CURTAINS.
Leo Bergin, with neatness and despatch, was comfortably buried, myself being chief mourner, and “after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.” I was impatient to know the contents of the package, but desiring to enjoy perfect leisure, while unravelling the mystery so intensified by Leo’s earnestness, I reluctantly laid it away, to wait my arrival in London.
Time passed.
I was back at my old quarters in Great Russell Street, London. The weather was so chill, dark, and foggy, that, at four, I had lighted the gas. The fire burned lazily in the small grate. The room was not uncomfortable, but in harmony with the gloomy surroundings. I was touched by a feeling of depressing loneliness. I paced the not very expansive floor, peered through the blackness into the dimly lighted streets, paced again, lighted a cigar, sat and pondered.
Thrown back in an easy chair, dreamingly watching the graceful whirling wreaths of my consoling Havana, my thoughts on random wing soared aimlessly away, to gather up the memories of vanished days. Then, like gladsome youths on holiday, came trooping along the casual incidents of an easy life, my last visit to Venice, my run to Marseilles with Monarco’s party, the stormy voyage along the coast of Spain. Ah! here, in flesh and blood with spare but athletic form, pale scholarly face, pleasing but rather melancholy smile, gentle voice and cordial, arose Leo Bergin; a thought! The form vanished, but the “package” was more substantial, and I hurriedly unpacked my trunk, and drew it forth, just as he had given it me fully three months earlier.
With a thrill of mingled pain and pleasure, I removed the rough twine, and unrolled the leather wrapping. My heart throbbed with emotion, my hand trembled, but my eager eyes beheld a large roll of manuscript neatly tied with familiar tape.
While I had not even a glimpse of the nature of these notes, I did not even guess, or attempt to guess, their character. I knew that Leo Bergin, when quite alive, had talent and ambition—the good looks for this occasion I will omit—and I knew this was a most interesting, if not an important “find.”