“Look here, my dear John,” I said at length, speaking with an effort, for there was a sensation of heavy oppression on my chest; “listen to me, old fellow. You’ve had time to cool down and bethink yourself: so far as I can judge you appear, as you say, neither crazy nor intoxicated. Now I wish you, remembering that we are sensible, enlightened men, living in London in this year 1875, to tell me honestly whether I am to understand you as deliberately asserting a belief in visitations from the other world. Because, really, you know, that is what anyone would infer from the way you have been talking this evening.”
“I see there would be little use, Drayton, in my answering your question directly; but I will give you a deliberate and honest account of my personal experiences during these last two days: there will be no danger of your mistaking my meaning then. You won’t mind my walking up and down the room while I’m speaking, will you? The subject is a painful one, and motion seems to make it easier, somehow.”
I did mind it very much, it made me as nervous as a water-beetle; but, of course, I forbore to say so, and Calbot went on:
“I said I found out all this ancestral trouble some time before I was engaged; and, as you may imagine, I kept silence about it to Miss Burleigh. I think now it was a mistake to do so; but my ideas on many subjects have undergone modification of late. I believe I had forgotten all about the discovery by the time I had made up my mind to risk an avowal: at any rate, I had no misgivings about it; and when I came out from my interview with her—the happiest man in England!—ah Drayton, it seemed to me then that there could be no more pains nor shadows in life for me thence-forward for ever!”
I devoutly wished, not for the first time that evening, that Calbot would not be so painfully in earnest. In his normal state it was difficult to get a serious word out of him; he was brimming over with quaint humour and fun; but, as he himself had remarked, he was another man to-day. After walking backwards and forwards once or twice in silence, he continued:
“You know how happy I was those first few days. I daresay you wished me and my happiness in Jericho, when I insisted on deluging you with an account of it. Think! Drayton, that was hardly a week ago. Well, as soon as I had got a little bit used to the feeling of being engaged, I began to think what I should give her—Edna, you know—for a betrothal gift. A ring, of course, is the usual thing; but I couldn’t be satisfied with a ring: I wanted my gift to be something rare—unique; in short, something different from what any other fellow could give his mistress; for I loved her more than any woman was ever loved before. After a good deal of fruitless bother, I suddenly bethought myself of a jewel-box which had belonged to my mother—God bless her!—and which she had bequeathed to me, intending, very likely, that I should use it for the very purpose I was now thinking of. I got out the box, and overhauled it. There was a lot of curious old trinkets in it; but the thing which at once took my eye was a delicately wrought gold necklace, that looked as though it had been made expressly for Edna’s throat. There was a locket attached to it, which I at first meant to take off; but on examining it closely, I found it was quite worthy of the chain—was an exquisite work of art, indeed. It was made of a dark yellow or brownish sort of stone, semi-transparent, and was engraven with a very finely-wrought bas-relief.”
“Calbot!” exclaimed I, starting upright in my chair, “what sort of a stone did you say that locket was made of?”
“What is the matter?” returned he, stopping short in his walk and facing me with a glance partly apprehensive, partly expectant. “I never saw exactly such a stone before—but why?”
“Oh, nothing,” said I, after a moment’s excited thought; “it certainly is very strange! But, never mind, go on,” I added, throwing a glance at the old manuscript which lay open on the table; “go on. I’ll tell you afterwards; I must turn it over in my mind a bit.”
“The reason I described it so minutely,” remarked Calbot, “was that I got a notion into my head that it had something to do with what happened afterwards, and the reason of that notion is, that almost from the very moment that Edna took the necklace—I clasped it round her neck myself—the strange awful influence—visitation—call it what you like—began to be apparent.