’Tis a strange mystery, the power of words. Life is in them, and death. A word may send the crimson current hurrying to the cheek, hurrying with many meanings, or may turn it, cold and deadly, to the heart. And yet, a word is but a breath of passing air. This is pretty—I hope it is original, but I fear it is not—but here begins the diary, a full record of the doings and observations of Leo Bergin for two eventful years. Where is number one? Ah! here it is, a few little old crumpled sheets I had not seen. No. 1 plain enough. He began on these, and laid in his supply of paper later. I will quote verbatim the first few pages, as they may furnish the key to the whole.
Well, then, this is the starting of that career, I hope an interesting one. It begins:—
“At sea, on board steamer Irene,
“Off coast Spain,
“October 5th, 1898.
“Terrible storm! The purser said we were in ‘imminent danger.’ Danger! how thrilling!—if a fellow were not so sick. Terrible storm! But, as compared with my tempestuous soul, the angry Mediterranean is still.
“I regret having met Sir Marmaduke. He did me a kindness; I served Folder well; Lucile, and I—a poor adventurer—became friends. The Times wanted me to go to Armenia; I borrowed the money from young Folder in his father’s absence; young Folder, it seems, took the money from the firm’s safe; he fell into disgrace with his father, accused me, and—well, Folder and Sir Marmaduke and dear Lucile, all think me a thief. Let the old Mediterranean howl, let her mountainous waves plough the ground, until all the bones of all she has slain are washed up and cast on the shores of bloody Spain, and until the Pillars of Hercules are torn from their base, and I will laugh at raving Nature’s petulant moods, and go down smiling with the wreckage to death and eternal night. But confound young Folder! and, but for Lucile, I would teach him a sense of proportion. Sir Marmaduke shall sometime know that he was not mistaken in me—and Lucile—well, maybe she’d rather think me a villain, than to know her brother was one.”
Well, well! “Oh, my prophetic soul!” Leo Bergin, forgive! Then, Leo was not a thief, and I, like a common fool, now that the truth is out should have known that Leo Bergin, with his fine attainments, his superb vanity, and his indifference to wealth, could not stain his hands with dishonor. Surely it was a foolish proceeding at such a juncture for Leo Bergin to die. What fine material for a romance! But we never romance. He continues:—
“This morning I discovered that I had a strange cabin mate. Physically, he is the finest type of manly beauty I ever beheld; and, mentally, he seems above our common human nature. That he is no fool is certain, that he is not insane, I am fairly well persuaded, and that he is mistaken seems hardly credible, yet as measured by all the supposed knowledge of our generation, by the demonstrations of science and the calculations of thinkers, he talks the most arrant nonsense. His splendid personality, his easy graceful manners, and his general intelligence interests one; his ‘sublime gift of eloquent gab,’ his seeming logic, and his insinuating ideas are charming, but the seeming boldness, not to say audacity of his statements astonishes one. But to me, he is resistless; and for good or ill, success or failure, life or death, I have cast my lot with him.
“Evening, later. Strange experience this—the storms have no terror for me. Strange! but this mysterious cabin mate has captivated me. I was so bewildered with his impossible statements and extravagant claims, and with all his absolute indifference as to our incredulity, that I sought refuge in the captain’s room, and here, listening to an interesting recital, I spent four of the most thrilling hours of my life.
“The captain is certainly a gentleman of superior parts. He has a fine knowledge of astronomy, he is a master of geography, and is deeply read in the broader and more general physical sciences, and yet, in the presence of this stranger, as he seems not of our world in any sense common to our understanding, he is dumb with astonishment.
“This strange being, surely a man, for he eats and drinks and smokes, and worse, he snores, says he is Amoora Oseba, that he lives in a great city called Eurania, in a country called Cavitorus, and that his people are called Shadowas. Save that the mind wanders with an unconscious effort to locate this country, city, and people, this statement seems but commonplace.