“Ay, and so she did, sir. Well, ’twas cared for by the housekeeper—she being grandmother to it and so having first right, the more as the Scholar was crazed, though not dangerous, but mild and melancholy-like. But in years the old woman she came to the poor-house, and there died; and I took the baby, and gave her what best I had to give, and better schooling than the lasses care for hereabouts. And as luck would have it, an elderly woman of Danish blood being come by a chance to the village, I got her to be nurse to the little one, and so grew up to a knowledge of her native tongue, d’ye see, and the fairy tales and such like thereto belonging. And—ay, I see you’ve guessed it long already, sir—that’s Agatha.”
I had intended relating my vision to Mr. Poyntz on the spot where it occurred; but I know not what reluctance prevented me. It was too solemn and inexplicable an experience to bear discussion so soon. So, instead of that, I told him, as we trudged homewards together, the history of the Feuerberg family, and how all tended to ratify my conviction that Agatha and I were cousins, though far removed. And I may remark here that he and I between us had afterwards no difficulty (what with his documents and my knowledge) in establishing the relationship beyond a doubt. “But,” I added, as we stood on the brow of the slope overlooking the old house, and saw Agatha appear round the corner and kiss her hand to us, “but she and I are the last of our race, and there is no great fortune awaiting us, that I know of. Only, Mr. Poyntz, I love her with my whole heart; if she can love me, will you trust her to me?”
“Nay, ye mustn’t ask me,” replied the ancient mariner, grasping my hand, with tears in his old blue eyes. “I doubt she loves you well, already. And so do we all, for ye’re a man, all be a quiet one. ’Twill be hard parting with her, as has been sunshine to us this many a year; but ye’ll bring her to see the old folks, as time serves; and I’m bold for to believe ye’ll be as happy as the day is long.”
It is twenty years since then, and old Jack Poyntz’s prophecy has proved true. My wife is wont to say, with a smile in her dark eyes, that our prosperity is due to the restored virtue of the pearl-shell necklace, which still rests upon her bosom. To me, however, the necklace seems but as the symbol of the true love whose radiance has blessed our lives, and brought us better luck than any witchcraft can bestow.