Phosphor: An Ischian Mystery

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PHOSPHOR:

An Ischian Mystery.

By

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COOK, DURRE & CO., PRINTERS.

129 RUSSELL STREET, MELBOURNE.

DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR

Preface

PREFACE.

One evening about three months ago—at a card party given, by a Bohemian acquaintance of mine—I met a man who interested me strangely. We seemed instinctively to take a fancy to each other, and, when we left, exchanged addresses—he promising to call at my hotel the following evening.

He did so, and we sat talking and smoking until past midnight.

Occasionally he would stop in the middle of a sentence and tail into a reverie, then would rouse himself with an effort and continue what he was saying. This is the only peculiarity I noticed about him.

During our conversation he casually mentioned that he was thirty years old. This I rather doubted, as he looked at least over forty. He did not seem at all well, and I told him he should take care of himself.

He laughed, and said that he had consumption, and that the pleasure he would lose by taking care of himself would hardly compensate for the extra few weeks he might live.

After this we visited each other constantly, until one day, calling on him, I was told he had left. At the end of a week I received a letter asking me to come and see him at Queenscliff; he added that he wished to see me particularly.

I went and found him very ill. He told me he did not expect to live more than a few days. I insisted on his obtaining medical advice.

To avoid an inquest he consented. The doctor confirmed his prognosis, adding that he might die at any moment.

He look it very quietly, and said he was not very sorry.

He died a week after my arrival; the day before, he gave me a packet of papers, with instructions to read them after he was dead.

He assured me what I would read in them was perfectly true and had occurred to himself. He also gave me permission to publish them if I cared to. He gave me his solicitors' address, and asked me to forward his will and a few other papers to them. He died on the 28th of July last. After his death I did as he had requested.

I read the papers be had given me, and determined to have them published. If they are true they are wonderful.

He showed me the lock of hair alluded to in the following pages, but would not give it me.

That was all he had to vouch for the truth of what he had written. On the other hand, he may have thought he passed through it all in the delirium caused by the snake-bite and earthquake combined. I will not make any comments, but leave it for all who read his story to decide. I copy it verbatim from his papers.

Chapter I

PHOSPHOR:

AN ISCHIAN MYSTERY.

CHAPTER I.

When the world reads this it will in all probability put me down as a madman, but in this as in many other instances the world will be wrong.

It would be no wonder if I was mad after what I passed through, yet I do not think at any time my senses were clearer than they are at present.

When the world has a chance (and it usually has) of saying anything good or bad about a man or woman it will generally choose the latter, and I do not blame it; for taking the general run of men and women (I cannot leave them out) there is far more bad (luckily never seen or shown), than there is of good which is paraded on the surface for the world to see, and each individual knowing how much he or she conceals, at once judges others by himself or herself.

However, for what the world will say I care nothing; in fact when this is published I shall probably be where the opinion of the world can have no effect upon me; and if I should be alive the few people who know me, and perchance may guess I have written these pages, will either believe me or else I shall lose the little friendship they may have for me.

That will not matter, as there is not a single soul now living for whom I feel the slightest love or interest. I shall not use my real name, as I have no desire for notoriety, nor do I wish people to gaze askance at me as a natural curiosity while walking about the streets.

Men consider me morose; for women I feel no interest, so their opinion troubles me even less than that of men. None of my acquaintances know anything concerning my past life, therefore, I shall have no hesitation in giving an accurate account of a few needful particulars in reference to my family and early history.

My mother was English, but had been brought up in Italy (that land of a thousand memories) and had lived in Naples the greater part of her life before she met my father; he was also English, and whilst travelling through Naples had seen her. He stayed there for some time, then married and took her back to England with him. I was their only child, and was born on the 28th July, 1856, in Queen's Road, Peckham, near London.

My father was a speculator, and had made a large fortune; success made him sanguine, he embarked his whole capital with his dearest friend in an undertaking from which he expected to retire a millionaire.

His friend proved a swindler, and one morning he woke up to find himself ruined. The blow proved too much for him.

In the evening he said good-night to my mother as usual, and retired to his study.

In the morning he was not in his room when the servant knocked, so she informed my mother, who arose with terrible forebodings, and hastened to the library. The door was locked. They knocked—received no answer—broke it down, and there, sitting in his arm-chair before his desk, was all that remained of my father.

He left a letter to my mother, saying he had lost everything, and, being old, did not see any chance of recovering his losses, so thought the best thing he could do was to kill himself.

He called down the vengeance of God on the wretch who had ruined him, and ended by asking her to forgive him for leaving her.

I will pass over the inquest, merely stating that the verdict was suicide from prussic acid. My mother was very ill for some time, and when she recovered we moved to Kent, and rented a pretty cottage.

Oh! thou beautiful county, how I now long for those peaceful days spent amongst thy woods and green fields.

When our affairs were settled my mother found she only had five hundred a year, which had fortunately been settled on her at her marriage.

She could not bear me out of her sight; so, instead of sending me to school, she procured me a tutor, who, seeing I had an aptitude for learning, took pains to teach me all he knew, and he being an extremely clever man, I derived no small benefit from his services.

I had no companions of my own age, and having little else to do, found the time passed with him was the most pleasant dining the day. His had been an unlucky life. Whilst he was studying his parents died, and finding himself without the necessary funds to last him through his examination, was obliged to leave the University and take to teaching as a means of gaining a livelihood.

He, however, always cherished the idea of one day being a qualified medical practitioner.

From his constant reference to this subject he instilled into my mind a desire to become a member of that profession. So after passing the preliminary examination with ease, and with much persuasion having gained the consent of my mother, when I was seventeen I went to Edinburgh. Here, with the exception of occasional visits to Kent, I stayed for four years, and at the end of that time found myself at liberty to write M.B. after my name.

The next two years were spent in visiting the chief continental laboratories. I embodied my researches in toxicology in my graduation thesis for M.D., and received special commendation and a gold medal for it.

I then went to live with my mother in Kent. I started practice and—fell in love.

The object of my affections was one of my first patients. And in our first meeting was a touch of romance. Walking one day in a wood near our home, I heard a woman's voice crying for help, and rushing to the spot I found a beautiful girl sitting on a bank of green moss, weeping and calling for help by turns. I enquired if I could be of any assistance. She told me she was one of a picnic party, and wandering about had lost her friends; trying to reach some nuts she had trod on a stick, and was afraid she had sprained her ankle, as she could not move it without great pain. All this was told in the prettiest way imaginable between her sobs.

I informed her I was a doctor, and proffered my services to bandage the ankle.

She looked at me for a moment, doubtless thinking my youthful appearance more befitting a schoolboy than a full blown medico.

I, seeing her hesitation, hastened to assure her—"I am Dr. Morton and live in Sittingborne."

Looking at me through tears that made her face look more bewitching she said, "Oh! are you Dr. Morton;—I thought he was much older than you seem to be?"

Then quickly with an assumption of dignity that made her look simply irresistible—"I beg your pardon! you must think me very rude, I, I—"

But the pain becoming too great, she dropped her dignified attitude and again commenced to cry. Without waiting any longer I took out my pocket-knife and kneeling down ripped up her little French kid boot and stocking.

The ankle was already very much swollen, so bidding her keep quiet for a few moments, I ran to a brook that was luckily near and dipping my handkerchief in hurried back.

I placed it round her foot (and a dear little foot it was) as carefully as I could, but though I hardly touched it she could not help now and then giving a cry of pain. Having finished I asked her in which direction she thought her friends were, but she did not know.

So I shouted out several times without receiving any answer.

What was to be done? Whatever it was required doing speedily, as the ankle needed properly bandaging.

Here was I with a sweetly pretty girl alone in the wood. The situation was rather embarrassing; but at that moment I would not have exchanged it for any other in the world.

"The only way I can think of," I said, "is for you to wait here, while I run to the nearest parish and try to get a conveyance of some sort or other to take you home. Where do you live?"

She raised her eyes piteously to my face.

"I am staying at Mrs. Mavis's in Sittinghorne. Oh! please don't go away, they will not know what has become of me. What am I to do?"

"Well, as you will not let me leave you. I shall have to take you with me; you do not look very heavy."

"Do you think you could carry me. It is quite a mile to our place."

I waited no longer, but bending down lifted her carefully in my arms, so as to hurt her as little as possible, and strode through the woods.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

Can I describe her? Is it possible for me to describe such bewitching loveliness?

My darling, could my pen do you justice? No! a thousand times, no!

Whatever I should say could give but a feeble idea of you. It was not only your face, or your form, there was an indescribable something about you essentially your own.

You were yourself, that was enough for me. None other in my eyes could be like you.

When you cried you looked prettier than another woman when she smiles. When you smiled I seemed to be nearer God—my brain whirled with excess of joy.

How I blessed that picnic party! The wood for attracting her from her friends, the nuts for causing her to desire them, and most of all, the stick for spraining her ankle! I was thoroughly selfish.

I always have been. I thought nothing of her pain, but merely saw in it a means for me to win her for my wife.

Yes! Already, in three quarters of an hour I was madly in love, as an hour before, I should not have dreamed it possible for me to be.

I looked at her lying in my arms.

What a lovely picture she made! Her closed eyes caused her dark lashes to sweep her cheeks.

Her lips apart disclosed to my enraptured gaze two rows of small pearly teeth; her dead golden coloured hair had become unfastened, and partly hid one of her pink cheeks; beneath her muslin and lace dress I could see the gentle motion of her bosom.

Her contracted forehead, and the corners of her mouth occasionally twitching, showed me she was still in pain; the whole made a picture, the like of which very few men have the good luck to see. How I wished I had five miles to carry her instead of one!

She opened her eyes. "I have not told you my name yet." I smiled to myself. What difference could her name make to me?

My God! what was she saying?

"It is Edith Garren."

The words seemed to burn into my brain.

I felt giddy and stumbled.

She uttered a cry of pain, and then continuing, said, "I am the only daughter of Major Garren."

I pulled myself together with an effort, and controlled my emotion.

"Edith Garren! Major Garren!"

"I am staying with Mrs. Mavis now, as my father has gone to America."

O Heavens; to think it should come to this. I, David Morton, to be in love with, to have in my arms, to have sworn in my soul to win the daughter of the man who had ruined my father.

How I accomplished the rest of the mile I do not know. But at last I found myself at the gate of Mrs. Mavis's house.

The party had returned, and seeing us coming hastened to the gate. Missing her in the wood they had concluded she had gone back to the house.

But when they returned they were much alarmed by not finding her and were just on the point of setting out again for the woods.

However, our return of course put an end to their anxiety, as far as that was concerned.

I carried her in, properly bandaged her foot, and received the thanks of her hostess, and an invitation to stay to dinner, which I declined. I left, promising to call in the morning and see how the foot was progressing.

On returning home I found I had just time to dress for dinner; so I put off telling my mother until afterwards.

During the meal I tried to argue with and convince myself that I did not care for Edith.

But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I should never again care for a woman. Then, reasoning that it was no use informing my mother about it unless I told her everything, and knowing the effect my information would have on her, I determined to keep it to myself.

I never slept for a moment during the night, and before daylight arose, dressed myself and went outside.

My steps seemed drawn towards the scene of yesterday's adventure, and lighting a cigar, I strolled in that direction.

Entering the wood, I continued walking, not knowing exactly in what direction I was going. As the first rays of the sun appeared in the east I found myself near the brook where I had gone to wet my handkerchief the evening before, and knowing that I could not be far from the spot where I had discovered Edith (I already surprised myself calling her by her christian name), I proceeded to look for it.

Following the stream, I came to the place where I had wet the handkerchief, and tracing my footsteps had no difficulty in finding the exact spot.

The first thing that attracted my attention was the little boot I had cut off her foot; near it was a piece of paper. I picked it up, opened it and found it was a letter from Major Garren to Edith, commencing—"My dear Child."

From the number of terms of endearment used I could plainly see that he was passionately fond of his daughter.

It ended by telling her he expected to be in England again in some months. It also contained a postscript, running—"Have you come across a Dr. Morton, I hear there is one in Kent?"

I sat down on the bank and was soon lost in thought; suddenly an idea struck me: "What greater revenge could I have than to rob this man of his only child ?"

I returned home.

After breakfast I proceeded to visit my patient. On my arrival I was warmly greeted by Mrs, Mavis and shown into the drawing-room, where Edith was lying on the sofa.

She seemed pleased to see me, and blushed very much whilst thanking me for my exertions on her behalf, little knowing how much pleasure my services had given me.

Her ankle was very much swollen, and to my satisfaction I saw in it means of visiting her for some time.

During our conversion Edith remarked:—

"I think papa must have known your father, Dr. Morton, for in his last letter he asks me if I had met you." "It is very probable," I replied. "I have an indistinct recollection of his occasionally visiting us when we were at Peckham."

They asked me to stay to lunch. I did so, and made myself as agreeable as possible.

Day after day I continued my visits until I could find no reasonable pretext for coming so constantly—Edith's ankle having been well some time.

At the end of about two months I proposed to her, and she accepted me.

My mother, who knew nothing about Edith, had to be told.

She was astonished, and at first would not believe that I had engaged myself to the daughter of my father's murderer, as she persisted in calling him.

But after meeting Edith, and I having explained to her that it would be a great punishment to Garren for his only daughter to marry the son of the man he had killed by his treachery, she at last looked at it from the same point of view as myself.

Edith wrote to her father, informing him of our engagement.

But, resolving that nothing should thwart me in my object, I bribed one of the servants to get me the letter, for I knew if he heard we were engaged he would be over by the next boat, and I should lose her.

This I determined should not happen if it was in my power to stop it.

The marriage was hurried on, and four months after our engagement we were married quietly. We went to London for our honeymoon and stayed there three weeks.

Those three weeks remain the one bright oasis in a life of misery.

We returned to Kent and lived in the same house as my mother.

Edith wrote to America, telling her father of our marriage, and trusting soon to see him. I did not think he would come, and I was right.

We waited impatiently for a reply, but none came.

Some time after we received a communication from Major Garren's solicitor, informing us of his death, and that in consequence of his daughter marrying me he had left all his money to charities.

For eight months I was happy, then misfortune came.

My wife died in giving birth to a son.

Three days later the baby died.

I was distracted.

I had brain fever, and was ill six months.

At the end of that time I was again able to move about, the shadow of my former self, thin and weakened by my illness.

My mother took me to the seaside, where we stayed six months. Then I returned to my practice.

But my misfortunes had not yet ceased—sixteen months after my return, my mother (who had always been delicate,) died of consumption.

So that in a little more than two years I lost all I cared for in the world.

By my mother's death, I came into five hundred a year, irrespective of my practice.

I could not bear to live amongst the scenes of my great happiness and greater losses, so I determined to travel, and try if fresh places and new faces could not assuage a little of my misery.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

Accordingly, I sold my practice, and three months after my mother's death, to be exact, on the second of December, 1882, I went on board the steamer to cross to Havre, and half-an-hour later, saw the cliffs of Dover fading from my sight.

We had a miserable passage across.

Havre is about the most cheerful of all the many Norman seaports, and its surrounding heights, its people dressed in quaint costumes, and busy quays and cafes, make it hard to believe it is only about six hours journey from England.

I engaged a valet, and amused myself for about a month by making excursions by sea to the numerous Norman watering-places.

I then went to Dieppe, and travelling through St Valery, Fecamp, etc., came back to Havre, and from there by way of Rouen up the lovely Valley of the Seine, to Paris.

Here I arrived about two months after leaving London.

The route is full of charm at every step, and makes the journey as attractive as that by Calais is uninteresting.

Staying for two months in Paris, I then went to Lyons, then to Switzerland, and stayed for a little while at Turin; from there to Parma, Modena, Florence, and Rome, where I stayed a few weeks.

From Rome, I took boat to Civita Vecchia, and horn there went to Naples, where I determined to rest.

For some time I amused myself making excursions to all the places of interest; but growing tired, deeded to cross to Ischia, and spend the summer on the island.

Boats leave twice a day for Procida and Ischia, and though they only take two and a half hours doing the trip, in fine weather it is delightful.

On the 21st of May, 1883, I went on board, and fifteen minutes later left the quay.

It was a lovely day, the rays of the sun tempered by a delicious breeze blowing across the bay.

We skirted the waterside of the bay of Pointa di Posilipo, then crossed the entrance to the Gulf of Puzzuoli.

The scenery is magnificent; we could see over Puzzuoli, Nisida, Baiæ, etc., and rounding the Capo di Miseiro, reached the Marina di Miseiro at the foot of its picturesque castle.

I left the steamer at the beach of Marina di Santa Maria, and, having procured a cart for my luggage, journeyed by the road which traverses the island from north to south to the little Bay of Chiaiocella, whence I again took boat for the town of Ischia.

Before I proceed, let me pause for a few moments and describe this most beautiful island of the Bay of Naples.

Ischia, known to the ancients as Pithecusa, Ænaria, and Inarimi, is the largest island in the vicinity of Naples, and is distant from it about twenty miles.

Its circumference is twenty miles, the widest part about four miles, and its breadth five and a half.

Its population numbers about 24,000.

Before Vesuvius resumed activity in the first century of our era, Ischia was the principal centre of volcanic action in South Italy.

Monte Epopeo, the Epopos of the Greek and Epopeus of the Latin poets, is near the centre of the island.

There is no trace of lava near the summit, and the volcano seems to have acted chiefly by lateral eruptions.

Several volcanic rents can be distinctly traced in its flanks and in many parts of its declivities.

The north and west portions of the island slope gradually down to the sea, whilst the south and east plunging into it form abrupt and lofty precipices.

Ischia is associated with volcanic action from an early period, and the mythology of the ancients connected with these phenomena has invested the island with a charm peculiarly its own.

About the time of the foundation of Cumæ a Greek colony from Chalcis and Erythrea settled in the island.

Their prosperity for a time was great, but they had to leave on account of the constant earthquake and volcanic action.

Finally they settled on the opposite coast ot Cumæ.

Tunæus mentions them, and records a tradition that shortly before his time (he lived about 262 B.C.) Monte Epomeo vomited forth fire and ashes, and that the land between it and the coast was forcibly cast into the sea, which receded three stadias, and returning overflowed the island and quenched the fire.

These occurrences are also recounted by Pliny, though his version of them differs from that given by Tunæus.

He says that Epomeo vomited forth flames.

That by one of the earthquakes accompanying the eruption a marsh was created, and that Procida was detached by another.

In 1302 one eruption took place, and a stream of lava issued from the north-east base of Monte Epomeo and flowed into the sea near the town of Ischia.

The ancient name Pithecusa was most likely derived by the Roman poets from Πιθηκος because the island was said to be inhabited by monkeys.

It has a beautiful climate, and its convenient situation has attracted numerous visitors in all ages.

Cool breezes from the sea make the hottest season delightful.

Its beautiful hills and vales, rugged rocks, barren mountains, and fruitful plains are interspersed one with the other in the most romantic confusion.

Bishop Berkely in a letter to Pope in 1717, says,—"The island Inarimi is an epitome of the whole earth contained in a compass of eighteen miles."

Wheat and Indian corn are grown in the vales, but fruit trees cover most part of the cultivated land. Apricots, peaches, oranges, lemons, pomegranates, figs, water melons, and numerous other fruits flourish amazingly.

Vines and chestnut groves covet some of the hills; others are covered with myrtle, and other natural growths.

Mons Epomeus is the principal feature in the landscape. Near the bottom it is covered with vines; higher up, it affords pastures for flocks of sheep and goats.

On the top, its pointed sandy neck gives one of the finest prospects in the world.

From it, on a clear day, you behold a tract of about 300 miles of Italy, from the Promontory of Antium to the Cape of Palenmus.

This was the delightful spot in which I proposed to spend a few months and try to forget some of my misery.

Lucky for us poor mortals that we cannot foretell what the future has in store for us—but I am anticipating.

I made Casamicciola my headquarters, and renting a comfortable cottage, installed myself in it with my valet, and one servant to do my cooking.

I fitted myself up a laboratory, and in it amused myself, when tired of making excursions in or around the island.

Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.

One day, while standing outside the principal hotel, I saw an Indian with a basket on his back making his way towards me.

He stopped, placed the basket on the ground, drew out a small whistle, and commenced to play a monotonous air.

Presently I saw the lid of the basket move, and protruding from under it, the heads of several snakes; the music became quicker, and forth glided five cobra-di-capellas.

I had never seen anything like this before, it fascinated me.

I could not take my eyes off the rapid movements of the reptiles.

I approached the man and asked him if the snakes still had their fangs.

He could not understand me at first, but after some little trouble, he comprehended; and showing his white teeth, nodded his head.

Here was something to while away many an hour.

Why not try and discover an antidote to the bite of this most deadly of all snakes?

I at once resolved to try and buy the snakes.

Pointing to them, and then to myself, I took out a handful of silver and offered it to him.

He shook his head, but, understanding what I wished to do, put both his hands together evidently wishing me to double the amount I had offered.

Having done so, I gave it to him, and signalled for him to lift up the basket—into which the snakes had glided when he had stopped the music—and follow me.

When we arrived at my home, I procured five large earthenware jars, into which I made him put the snakes, and covered the opening with some fine wire netting until I could get some proper cages made for my new pets.

The Indian then left, explaining by signs, that they were to be fed on mice, small birds, and flies.

I went out and found a man to make me the cages, then returned to think out my new idea. Why should I not be the man to find an antidote?