INCONCLUSIVE ALLUSIONS.
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.