A Strange Enchantment

Front matter

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Chapter I. Sister Rebecca

My sister and I sat in the dear old country house which she had occupied for six and thirty years, and I for some dozen years less. This statement will lead you straight to the knowledge that we are neither of us young, to which I will add the information that we are both unmarried. Our name is Wakefield, mine Theodore, my sister's Rebecca. I decline to give you the precise locality of the house in which we have passed many happy years. We live in a prying, meddlesome age, and were our address known we should be inundated with letters of inquiry asking all manner of questions respecting the singular story I am about to narrate. It is, indeed, something more than singular ; it is mysterious and extraordinary, and the curiosity which its publication will to a certainty arouse would most likely prove to be the plague of our lives.

Therefore, I shall content myself with saying that in no part of England can a more charming residence be found, and in no part of England more charming scenery, than that by which our home is surrounded. I hear and read of a great deal of misery, but happily we see little of it about us. The poor, of course, we have ; that must always be in places suffering from over population ; but I am glad to be able to say that the humble folk with whom we come into more or less direct association bear their lot without undue repining, and thereby themselves minister to the comfort of their lives. In my dear sister they have a true friend, and they love and respect her. She deserves all the affection they display towards her — affection which I am sure is genuine, because of her charity, which is untiring, and of her ready ear, which is always open to listen to and sympathise with a tale of sorrow.

" Miss Rebecca, as she is fondly called by all, is an old maid, and you may search the world through and not find a more lovable and sweeter nature than hers. Never from her lips have I heard a harsh word for mortal, living or dead ; never a word of scandal ; never an unkind remark. In her countenance are depicted benevolence and cheerfulness ; the beauty of her spirit dwells in her eyes, which I have seen over flowing with pity while she administered practically to those in need of help. Dear Sister Rebecca ! You do not need to read these words of mine to be assured of the feelings of my heart towards you. A quiet, happy life has been ours, and this, in my con templation of it, seems to make the story I am relating all the more strange and weird. It may be a matter for wonder that a character so lovely as that of Rebecca should never have found its mate.

It did, for a brief space, although the one love which illu mined her youth never led her and him she loved to the altar. The inexorable hand of death closed the church door, and the dread shadow which ever hovers over mortal existence held forth to the bereaved maiden a flower of remembrance which will bloom with a sad sweetness in her heart till her last hour on earth. The man she loved proved not only during his lifetime that he was worthy of her love, but he left behind him substantial marks of his affection and of his confidence in her. In the first place, the dear home in which my sister and I reside. He had purchased the house, and had im proved and beautified it, as a dwelling-place for Rebecca and himself, and doubtless had dreamed of years of happiness there with the woman of his choice, and mayhap of children of their blood — for he was of a poetical tem perament, and his nature was distinguished by exceeding tenderness.

But these dreams were not to come to frui tion ; he did not live to take the first step towards their realisation. After his death, a letter was given to Rebecca, in which he told her of the bequest, and asked her to live in the house if she thought she could be happy there. Within a mile of our homestead is a quaint old churchyard, in which Rebecca's lover is buried, and to this day fresh flowers are blooming over his grave. In the second place JOYFUL NEWS. 3 he left her his fortune, placing no reservation or restriction upon the gift. Rebecca took up her residence in the house, and devoted a large portion of her wealth to charitable deeds. At this time I was in London, struggling to obtain a foothold for the exercise of my profession, which is that of medicine. I had, also, for a brief space, a foolish love affair of my own, of which mention will be made in these pages, and which came to grief.

My efforts to establish myself in London were not crowned with success, although I strove long and manfully ; and then it was that my dear sister wrote to me and begged me to come and live with her. She put it to me as an act of kindness towards herself, saying she was lonely and that it was weighing on her, but I knew that it was entirely for my sake that she made the entreaty. There was a practice for sale in the town, and she prayed that I would consent to her purchasing it for me. It fell out as she desired, and the happiest day of my life was that upon which I set foot in her dear home, and became, as she insisted it should be, its master. The practice that she purchased throve in my hands, and I earned money and esteem. At the period of the opening of this story I had, in furtherance of a resolve in which my sister cordially acquiesced, sold the practice, after having held it for nearly twenty years, and I was living as a private gentleman, with ample means, and surrounded by such sweetness as falls to the lot of very few men. I am humbly grateful for it.

Chapter II. Joyful News

As I have said at the commencement of this story, my sister and I were sitting in the dear old country house. We were discussing a theme which was especially interesting to Sister Rebecca. There was a hero attached to it, by name Harry Sheridan, and in my sister's opinion a heroine, of whose name we were ignorant. A brief description of this young man, and of the circum stances of our connection with him, will suffice. He was a poor lad in our neighbourhood, and was left an orphan when he was ten years of age. My sister, having known and respected his mother, a worthy woman, whose attainments and education entitled her to move in a higher station than that she occupied, took upon herself the care of Harry, who was then too young to adequately appreciate the kindness. As he grew up he became sensible of it, and he made every endeavour within his power to repay it.

My sister's efforts on his behalf were fruitful of good, for Harry Sheridan, when he came to manhood, was worthy of friendship. He was remarkably bright, and was as welcome in our home as if he had been of our blood. From the age of sixteen he got his own livelihood, and throve in a modest way. At twenty-one he became ambitious, and nothing would content him but seeking his fortune in London. He did not do badly there. His ambition took the direction of the thorny paths of litera ture, and he was fortunate enough to obtain an entrance into the ranks of journalism. As a descriptive writer his reputation grew, and he afforded us much pleasure by his bright and eloquent letters and by his regular tokens of remembrance of " Dear Miss Rebecca's " kindness. "I shall write a book one day," he said to her, "and shall make you the heroine."

" He will choose a younger lady," my sister said to me, and in confirmation of her view she referred to certain passages in his letters which bore to her a meaning they did not convey to me." " Do you believe Harry is in love ? " I asked. " On the borderland," replied Sister Rebecca. " But if it were so," I urged, " would you not be the first person he would confide in ? " " I think it would be so," said Sister Rebecca, " if he were sure of his ground. He is as yet uncertain of it ; and he is, besides, too honourable a man to directly engage a young lady's affections until he is in a position to offer her a home." Shortly after this conversation we received a letter from Harry, in which he informed us that he had accepted an offer to go to Egypt, in the private capacity of secretary and assistant to a famous special reporter.

One of our "little wars" in that turbulent land was being waged — little wars which seem likely never to come to a satisfactory end — and the famous special, having taken a fancy to Harry, made him an offer which the young man eagerly accepted. "I would, of course," he said in his letter, "rather go JOYFUL NEWS. 5 out as a principal, but I am not yet far enough advanced to be selected to represent an important newspaper at the seat of battle. That will come by-and-bye ; meanwhile, this is the next best thing to it. My chief is a man I am proud to serve under, and my salary is a good one. I shall learn a lot, and you may depend I shall not go about with my eyes shut. This is a letter of farewell. You will not hear from me again till I get to the East." My dear sister was full of concern for her favourite, and would have sent him flannels and all kinds of comforts if they could have reached him in time.

That not being practicable, she indited a tender epistle, full of wise counsel, and assuring him of her lasting affection. He wrote to us from time to time, in high spirits : everything was going well with him, and he was enjoying the new life. Then came an anxious silence, and the next thing we heard was that he was missing. An unexpected night attack on the part of the enemy had taken place, and, although our troops were victorious, there was rather a serious list of killed and wounded, and three or four were missing — among them, the young newspaper correspondent, Harry Sheridan. It was only through the newspapers that we were made acquainted with this calamity, and in great anxiety we searched their columns for weeks and months afterwards for news of our favourite. But nothing definite was discovered concerning him, and we were forced to the sad conclusion that he was dead.

Indeed, we mourned him as one lost to us, as a dear friend struck down in his prime. Our surprise, therefore, was all the greater when one morning we received a letter from London, in Harry's handwriting. It was addressed to my sister, but her hands trembled so when she saw the familiar writing on the en velope that she could not open it. I was scarcely less agitated, but I took the letter from her and opened it. It was a long, a very long letter, and I turned over the pages eagerly to assure myself that it was really Harry Sheridan who had written them. " Harry is living," I said. " Are you sure, are you sure ? " asked my sister, in trembling accents. "Here is his signature, 'Yours ever affectionately, Harry Sheridan.' There is no doubt upon the point." " But it may be an old letter," said my sister, afraid to yield her hopes, lest the cup should be dashed from her lips, " that has been mislaid or miscarried," " It is written only the day before yesterday," I said, " here is the date and the address, and from what I can judge by a glance here and there, it contains an account of his adventures."

Then my sister said "Thank God ! " and I echoed the grateful exclamation. I gave the letter to Rebecca to read aloud, but she could not for the tears in her eyes, which flowed as fast as she wiped them away. Waiting till she was calmer, I myself read the letter aloud. It is too long to reproduce in these pages. Sufficient to say that the first intelligence of Harry being missing was correct. He had been carried off, wounded, by the enemy, and had been hurried into the interior, where he recovered from his wounds. His efforts to escape were futile, but he had been kindly treated, and had, indeed, found a strange friend in an old Arab, between whom and himself some strong and close bond of affection had been cemented. The story, as related by Harry, could be amplified into a volume, but as it is not pertinent to the narrative upon which I am engaged, I shall but briefly touch upon one or two points which have indirect connection with it.

I shall likewise claim the privilege of designating Harry's new friend by the title of the Mystic, his own proper name, al though certainly picturesque, being long, and involved to the English sense. Moreover, the title I have chosen, exactly fits him. In the course of my medical experience I have come into association with strange matters, but through the Mystic, I was introduced to one which far transcends them all in mystery. Whether the extraordinary results achieved by his aid were produced by a most mysterious and wonderful power within himself, or by other means equally hidden from my comprehension, I am not learned enough to determine. We seem to be on the threshhold of startling discoveries in the unseen world, and what I have to tell may have connection with them. When Harry Sheridan first made the acquaintance of the Mystic, the old Arab had a daughter, who entertained for Harry a passionate affection.

It was evident to Harry that this young girl had not long to live, and he behaved tenderly and considerately towards her. He went no JOYFUL NEWS. 7 further ; he did not reciprocate the extravagant love she bore for him, but he had a sincere pity for her, and his conduct was that of a brother. She was fain to be con tent with this, and she so schooled her heart as to receive with meekness and gratitude the meed of affection he ex hibited for her. Her old father loved her with a most profound love, and he, too, was deeply grateful to Harry for the comfort the young man brought to his only child. Apart from the mysterious power to his probable posses sion of which I have already referred, the Mystic was no ordinary man. His accomplishments were wide and varied, and he could speak many languages, among them, English, which he had learnt in his youth.

The young girl died in Harry's arms, and from that hour the Mystic attached himself to Harry, partly for a reason which the letter I read to my sister did not disclose. Indeed, when Harry wrote the letter, he was ignorant of the reason, and therefore could make no mention of it. By the aid of the Mystic, Harry made his escape, and had returned to Eng land in the company of his new friend. These are the only points upon which it is necessary for me to touch at present. The letter being read, my sister Rebecca and I discussed the interesting theme. " Harry says nothing of coming to us," remarked my sister. " He will come soon," I said. "I am not so sure." said my sister. " Have you not detected something strange in Harry's letters ? " " His wonderful adventures," I replied ; " of course they are strange.

Harry will make a book out of them one day." " I do not mean that," said Sister Rebecca. " I do not refer to what he says, but to what he does not say. I am struck by a sadness in the letter, a sadness which Harry is unconscious that he has betrayed. He is in trouble." Sister Rebecca possesses an " insight " for which I have the greatest respect. This is an attribute of deeply sympathetic natures which responds as surely to soft notes of sadness as does the æolian harp to the passing of a light breeze. "Have you any idea," I asked, "of the nature of his trouble ? " " It can be but surmise," she said, "because he has not confided in me. Do you remember, brother, what I once said to you about Harry being on the borderland of love ? " "Yes," I said, "I remember." " I feel sure I was right," continued Sister Rebecca, "and that Harry went away in the hope that when he returned, with credit and honour, he would be in a position to declare his love.

His sadness springs from this love affair." I accepted her statement as though it had been put successfully to the proof. " She may not have returned his love," I said. " Harry may have been mistaken." " It may be so," she acquiesced. " Poor Harry ! Brother, it is some time since you have visited London." " A good many years." " Harry may need a friend, an English friend, to counsel and comfort him. Remember, brother, you were once in love yourself, and met with a disappointment." My heart beat quite calmly at this allusion. I had dis covered long ago that my disappointment was a blessing, and was the best thing that could have happened to me. But my sister would never accept it in this light ; she insisted upon looking at it seriously, and upon me as a man whose early hopes had been grievously blighted.

I must confess that I contributed in a small way to her belief by sending on every New Year's day a card of remembrance to the lady who had thrown me over for another and more wealthy wooer. This act, in which there had not been for a long time a particle of sentiment, was performed simply in fulfilment of a vow which I and the lady I loved had solemnly taken never to allow a New Year to pass, under any circumstances, without sending some such remembrance each to the other. " What do you wish me to do, Rebecca ? " I asked. " It would please me," she replied, "and would really do ycu good, if you went to London for a little holiday." "My life is a continual holiday here," I said, gazing fondly on my dear sister. " I am perfectly happy in your society, and need no change." "You might be able," said my sister, in a musing tone, "to help Harry in his trouble."

It was at this moment that a maid entered with a letter A LETTER FROM AN OLD SWEETHEART. 9 for me, which had just arrived by post, and as it has a most important bearing upon the story I am relating, I give it here in full.

Chapter III

A LETTER FROM AN OLD SWEETHEART. "My Dear Theodore, — " It is an age since I heard from you, and were it not for your New Year's card which I regularly receive, I should not know whether you were dead or alive. I have also been remiss in my correspondence — but not forgetful. No, that could never be. There are episodes in life which can never be erased from memory's page, even though one were wishful to forget. Believe, believe me, such is not my wish. I derive a sad, sad pleasure from the fond memories of the past, and am at times overwhelmed by them — yes, my dear Theodore, completely overwhelmed. I often think that it would have been better for me (and perhaps for you ; but who can say ? Time may have been more merciful to you than it has been to me, and your feelings may not be so fresh as mine.

I say it not in reproach, no, believe me). As I was about to say, I often think it would have been better for both of us if, instead of living apart from each other, instead of being cruelly separated But I am fearful of more deeply wounding your feelings, and I will not finish the sentence. Have I not already caused you suffering enough ? Is it not I who have blighted your life ? I am punished, justly punished. How good it is of you to remain faithful to the. vow we took so many, many years ago, never, while we lived, to allow a New Year to pass without sending some kind of remembrance to each other ! Have I not, also, been faithful to the vow ? Ah, those golden days of youth, for ever, ever fled ! Could we but woo them back again ! Could we but " However, this is in too sentimental a vein, and perhaps with you the sentiment of youth has passed away.

I am of a different order ; I could not live without it. I can never, never forget. That is because I am all nerves. It is not to indulge in sentimental flights that I take up my pen to write to you. I wish you to do me a great, a very great favour. You will not refuse me, I am convinced. There was a time when you would have flown to humour my lightest wish. " I will come to the point at once, and in order that you may have a proper understanding of the matter I must refer to certain circumstances. I must lift the veil which hangs over the past. " I beg of you, my dear Theodore, not to throw doubt upon the statement that I was forced, literally forced, into a marriage with my late husband, Monsieur Perigeux. Even before that event occurred you did me the injustice to suppose that I was false to you.

Why, why could you not wait ? Why were you so impatient ? Surely you must have known that there are circumstances over which no person has any control. Why, then, were we born ? Why were we sent into the world if we could not do as we wished ? It is very little I wrant, and yet it is denied to me. More than once has the cup of happiness been dashed from my lips. My bed has not been a bed of roses. One may have frightful dreams though one is rolling in money. After all, what is money ? ' The gold is but the guinea's stamp ; a man's a man for all that.' Is not that how it goes ? How true it is, how true ! I cannot put it in the Scotch dialect. I am only a weak woman, my dear Theodore. " Monsieur Perigeux was a very eccentric man, and tried me hard. He might have been content with worrying the life out of me, but he was not.

Despite all the care I bestowed upon him, he proved himself most ungrateful. I gave him the best of everything; I studied his lightest wish ; I thought nothing too good for him ; and though he used to get up in the middle of the night and walk about the bedroom for hours, or light his candle and read till break of day, I never, never complained. I bore with everything — with his whims and caprices, with his bursts of temper, with his interference in my management of the house, with his discharging the servants without consulting m.e — yes, I bore all this and more, a thousand times more, with the temper of an angel. How has he repaid me for my devotion ? What return has he given me for it ? "True, I have nothing at the present moment to com plain of as to my income, but I may be deprived of it at A LETTER FROM AN OLD SWEETHEART. 11 any moment ; the sword is hanging over my head, and may drop to-day, to-night, to-morrow.

Imagine my sufferings. It is fearful to contemplate, and I shut my eyes sometimes, and try not to scream out loud. You must confess, my dear Theodore, that when one gets accustomed to things — the best things — it is heartrending to think that one may be compelled to live without them. That is what I am threatened with. I cannot describe to you how shocked I was wrhen Monsieur Perigeux's will was read to me. I tried to get at it during his life-time, but he was too close, too artful for me. " ' It cannot, cannot be ! ' I said to the lawyer. "'Pardon me,' replied the lawyer, 'the conditions of the will, the terms in which those conditions are conveyed, are clear and unmistakable.' "The cold literalness of these lawyers, is it not hateful? Have they feelings ? " ' The will must be altered ! ' I said.

"'I am afraid,' said the lawyer, 'your late husband being in his grave, that it is too late for alterations to be made. Besides,' he added, with a fiendish smile, ' we have no address ; we should not exactly know where to send it.' " A joke at such a time ! When my heartstrings were quivering ! With such a man there was no arguing. It was only when the will was read that I learnt that, despite my widowhood, I was not free ; it was only then I learnt that I was fettered. My peace of mind, my position in society, my servants, horses, carriages, and the entire enjoyment of my days, depend now upon the health of a man who does not care a straw what becomes of me. Monsieur Perigeux left money to be expended in masses for his soul, but is one really better off in a heavenly way if he dies rich than if he dies poor ?

And when he does the grossest injustice to the devoted woman he has left behind him in this vale of tears, will millions of masses atone for the cruelty ? All this is not to the point, you may say, but to whom can I pour out my soul if not to you ? " Monsieur Perigeux, in his lifetime, contracted a most absurd fancy for my nephew, Somers Meredith. You remember my sister Alice, who died long, long years ago. You took her out with me sometimes in the dear old days. There was one never-to-be-forgotten day But I must not wander. Alice married a poor man, who survived her but a few months, and their only child, Somers Meredith, was left to my care. I did my duty by him, as I have done to every one all my life — nicely have I been served for it by one and all '.—and when 1 married Monsieur Perigeux I took Somers into my house and treated him as my son.