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.

“You have come to bring unholy memories,” said I.

“And you have come to reproach me,” said he, in tones of agony I shall never forget.

“No,” said I, “Leo Bergin, I give my hand. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead.’ Look not sorrowfully over the past—it comes not again—but with resolute heart and strong hand brave the future, and thou shall find a crown or a grave. List—not another word of the past; but, Leo Bergin, what of the future?”

“Thou art kind,” said he, with bowed head, and in good Bible phrase, “but I ill deserve your generosity.”

“List,” said I again, “Leo, what of the future?”

“The future?” said he, with bowed head, downcast eye, and awfully solemn voice, “the future? Because I know the past I feign would die; because I know not the future, I am cowardly enough to live. You know, my friend, my benefactor, that I have talent, good looks, and industry, but the world,” said he more sadly, “is against me.”

Yes, I had heard before that Leo Bergin had “talent, good looks, and industry.” In fact, Leo Bergin, on a memorable occasion, had himself confessed to me as much. Ah! my brothers, what good opinions we have of ourselves. All of us, men and women, think ourselves possessed of talent, good looks and social merits; but here our self-satisfaction ends, for the dull world, whom we could so well serve, failing to appreciate us, we are left a prey to neglect, and often to despair.

Ah! my brothers, we forget that we are not impartial judges; that the world is impartial and may be just in its conclusions. How kindly we think of ourselves! In the person who readily agrees with us, what noble qualities of soul and mind we discover. But ’tis well, for conceit, foolish as it may seem, often saves us from despair.

Yes, Leo Bergin had talent, education, good looks, and industry; but Leo Bergin, I had concluded from the occasion referred to, was erratic, “a shingle short”—in fact, not “all there.”

“But, Leo,” said I, “where are you bound?”

“To h——,” said he, in phrase quite jocular, in tones almost bitterly sad.

“Ah!” said I, “pack your kit then and step off at old Cadiz, for that is on the border.”

But the bugle blew for lunch, and the association of ideas drove Leo Bergin to his cabin, and, with a sickly promise to “come later,” I was left to ponder over the strange events of life—events that often lead to such meetings; the meetings, in turn, to lead to other events, even more strange and interesting.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

Well, my reader, while Leo Bergin is below, striving to compromise with his digestion, I will relate to you some of his peculiarities, that you may be prepared for his wonderful recital.

It was January 10th, 1898, as he entered my room on Great Russell Street, just opposite the British Museum, London, that I first saw him. He knocked at my door, gently; he entered my room, quietly; he sat down familiarly, and he opened the interview, promptly. I will not say Leo Bergin, on this occasion, was not modest; I will say he did not hesitate.

Had Leo Bergin remained silent I would have known that he was out of money, out of luck, out of friends, and almost out at the knees and elbows. But he evidently doubted my powers of perception, for, with superfluous frankness and eloquent volubility, he informed me that he only wanted a “loan” for a short time until he could “get on his feet.”

These stories were very common. They had been very “taking” with me, but desiring to avoid occupying a like position I had grown impatient and crusty, possibly a little hard-hearted, so I looked squarely into his fine eyes, and asked him “to get on his feet” at once.

He arose, looked me in the face, not with defiance or humiliation, not with shame or impudence, but like a man. He said, “I am down.” That was evident, but the soft saying of this had always cost me heavily, and, softening again, I asked who he was and what he could do.

He said, “I am an American; I was born in Virginia, lived in California, have done newspaper work in New Zealand, and as a journalist I am in London—and down.”

I weakened. The man who had been born in Virginia, lived in California, and done newspaper work in New Zealand, could not be wholly depraved, for the very air of these three favored spots would preserve some semblance of virtue.

“I surrender,” said I; “express your most fervent wish and it shall be granted.”

He betrayed little emotion. His countenance remained placid, but he said, “I have talent, good looks, and industry, and I want employment,—I desire to earn my living. I asked for a loan, but it was in despair, and I desired to replace my lost revolver that I might ‘quit this ghastly dream called life’ before another week’s board was due. But under the spell of your words, ‘a change came o’er the spirit of my dream,’ and now I must live.”

“Must!” said I, “you assert this ‘must’ with such emphasis, perhaps you would tell me why you must live? For my part I see no actual necessity for it—not the least.”

A cloud was on his brow. He remained silent and immovable as a statue.

“Cheer up, old fellow,” said I, “for if you desire to earn your living, I will secure a position for you.”

I knew who wanted a man, “talented, good-looking and industrious.” I gave Leo Bergin a suit of my clothes—just a little soiled, I confess, for, as a fact, I never could obey that divine injunction regarding the giving my brother a coat, until it was a little soiled. I gave him a strong letter to a friend on Trafalgar Square, and Leo Bergin stepped into a good position.

I was called to the Continent for a few months on important duty. Time went on and within a few weeks I received a brief note.

“Talent, good looks, and ambition, but a fool,” said I, “and he will never get on.”

A few more weeks passed, and another note came from “Trafalgar Square, London.” This was less brief than the other. It read:—

There seemed no vagueness in this note, but I pondered. What did I know about him? Only that he was once born in Virginia, had lived in California, and had done newspaper work in New Zealand. Musingly, I said, “Perchance the villain lied.” This solved the problem for the time, for it seemed more likely that a man should even lie, than go wrong with such a record.

For the time I lost all respect for Leo Bergin. To deliberately rob a confiding employer is reprehensible, and if Leo Bergin in this had not shown himself a thief, he had betrayed an entire lack of a sense of proportion. This was one side of Leo Bergin’s character.

But lapses, my brothers, do not establish total depravity, for it is reported “of old” that a gentleman, on a very serious occasion, prevaricated on a very potent fact, and when confronted, “he denied.” When pressed, “he denied with an oath,” and yet this gentleman has been kindly remembered and well spoken of.

TEMPESTUOUS.

The wind increased in violence. It was a wild night. The blue Mediterranean was angry, but the good ship plunged ahead like a defiant monster. For two days more, the decks were unoccupied save by the careless sailors. The tables looked “lonesome,” for the storm still raged in fury.

The hours and the days, that seemed like weeks and months, wore away. We rounded Cape Vincent, when immediately the wind ceased, the sea was calm, the ship rode smoothly, the air was balmy, and the passengers, like a section of the morning of resurrection, appeared plentifully upon the broad clean decks, and were happy.

Leo Bergin also appeared on deck. His smile was feeble, his grasp was languid, but he spoke earnestly of beef-steak and coffee, and I felt that he was—“better.” Old Cadiz had been passed, and he had evidently concluded to try some climate other than the one previously suggested. We sat—we chatted. I was to leave the ship at Lisbon, finishing my journey by the next steamer. He?—I did not know. Strange, when we do people a favour we at once feel an interest in them. Possibly we feel somewhat responsible for such an one’s conduct. Possibly, too, and more likely, we desire their success, that we may take to ourselves a little credit for a “happy career.”

I had done Leo Bergin a favor, was interested in him, and asked as to his “future.” His glance was friendly, his smile doubtful; he drew his chin lower on his bosom, drummed on a book with his gloved fingers, and said, “Well, I have made an acquaintance with a mysterious personage. I have talent, good looks, and ambition, but I am an outcast, and I am going on a new venture. You know the Folder episode, and, to be frank, after a serious review of the case, I question the propriety of my action, and now that the money is gone, I have many qualms of conscience.”

I was not a little surprised, but I was glad to discover that he believed himself to have a little conscience, for as “conscience does make cowards of us all,” I hoped for his reform.

We sat side by side, and planting his closed hand firmly on my knee by way of emphasis, he said, “Yes, I have made a new acquaintance, that of a mysterious personage, and I am now starting on the most reckless, the most risky, the most irrational, and the most romantic venture ever undertaken by mortal man, and if I succeed you shall hear from me; but if I fail, oblivion will claim Leo Bergin, and the claim will be promptly allowed. I made my new acquaintance and formed my new plans but yesterday, and I stand at the dawn of the most enchanting dream that ever lured a sensible man to ruin.”

I begged him to unfold his tale, but he answered, “You are a practical man, and you would regard my undertaking as so wild and visionary as to indicate insanity, for you do not regard me as an imbecile. If I fail, only another leaf, its stem nipped by the frost, flutters to the ground to fertilise the soil. If I fail, the world, save you, knows not of my folly. If I succeed, the facts that I shall reveal will be more strange than fiction, and the results of my adventure will redound to the glory of the land I love.”

“Ill as I was,” he continued, “I began my notes yesterday, October 5th, 1898, off the coast of Spain, and I shall keep a true record of my doings and my observations. If I survive, which is hardly likely, I shall find you and place my notes at your disposal. If I perish—if possible you shall have them brought down to the last breath, and in every page you shall have evidence of my gratitude and my integrity.”

“But tell me,” said I, with impatience. Here the whistle blew, we saw all confusion, and we were entering the port of Lisbon. Time for further explanation, there was none. We separated, I to follow out well-laid plans for business and pleasure, he—well, to me it was an unsolvable riddle; but I never lost faith that, some time and in some place, Leo Bergin would again turn up.