I finished my first glass of wine, poured out another, and taking up
the _Contemporary_ turned to the masterly discussion of "Unrecognisable
Truths," &c. Before I had reached the close of the opening period,
however, I heard the postman's knock.
I ought to have mentioned that I had been down to Richmond that
afternoon--an unusual thing for me to do at that time of year. But the
fact was that a distant connection of mine had died a short time before,
and his effects were announced to be sold at auction. I had reason
to believe that among these effects were some old relics of my
family--documents and so forth--which I was interested to recover;
indeed, but that some foolish quarrel or other had parted my relative
and me years ago, I might doubtless have had them at any time for the
asking. Of the precise nature of the documents in question I was not
precisely informed; Armstrong--such was my relative's name--had taken
care not to enlighten me on the subject. When I read the announcement
of his death in _The Times_ I had half expected that he might have
bequeathed me the old things; but it turned out that he had made no will
at all, having, as it appeared, no very great property to dispose of.
He was a queer fellow, and came of a queer family; half insane I always
considered them; and I know they were suspected of witchcraft as long
ago as the time of our old Dean. Nay, the Dean himself was whispered to
have been the least bit overshadowed at that epoch, owing, I understand,
to one fussy habit he had of encouraging confidences. One of these
Armstrong witches had communicated some devilish secret or other to the
reverend gentleman, I suppose, and thus brought ill-repute upon him.
However, the Dean was no fool, and got out of the scrape by writing that
pamphlet on witchcraft.
Well, I was about to say that when I heard of the sale I resolved to run
over to Richmond and see what I could pick up. I got there just in time
to see the last lot knocked down. It was shockingly stupid of me to
have mistaken the hour--such a cold day, too, and I so unaccustomed to
running about the country at that time of year. But there was no help
for it; I had to return as wise as I started, and the poorer by the loss
of my temper and expectations. I was beginning to get in a good humour
again, however, what with my fire, and my cigar, and my article on
"Truths," &c, and partly, no doubt, by reason of the genial effect of
that old port-wine; besides, I am by no means of a sour disposition,
naturally; when all of a sudden came the postman's knock, making
me start so that the ash of my cigar fell on the open page of the
_Contemporary_ and scorched a hole in it. Postmen have always been a
horror to me; I have never enjoyed receiving letters since the date of a
certain missive from--from someone who is now the wife of another man;
and on this particular evening I was more than commonly averse to any
such interruption. I laid my book on my knees, leaned back in my chair,
and blew an irritated cloud of smoke towards the painted countenance of
my ecclesiastical ancestor over the fireplace. It curled and twisted
about his respectable visage, until I could almost have believed that he
winked one eye and moved his ancient lips as if to speak.
The servant brought in a square packet done up in brown wrapping-paper,
and sealed in half-a-dozen places. It was about the size and shape of
the magazine I had been reading--a little thicker, perhaps, and heavier.
I put my name to the receipt accompanying the parcel, and the servant
went out.
At first I was disposed to let the thing lie unopened till the next day,
being well assured that it would not repay examination: and I actually
did put it aside and attempt to resume my reading as though no
interruption had occurred. But I found it impossible to get on, or to
fix my thoughts upon anything except just that parcel. What could be in
it? Who could have sent it? I looked at the direction, but could make
nothing out of that; it was written in an ordinary business hand, quite
characterless and non-committal. I felt it carefully all over; it was
stiffer than ordinary paper, but not hard like wood. Meanwhile I glanced
up at my pictured ancestor, and was struck with the expression of
anxious interest which appeared to have come over his features. Perhaps
he knew what the packet contained; or more probably his ruling passion
of curiosity, strong in death, was making his old painted fingers itch
to break the seals and take a peep at the mystery. The idea provoked me,
and with a sudden impulse I held the packet out over the blazing
Wallsend, two-thirds minded to drop it in. But the next moment I was
more provoked at my own childish folly. I drew the thing back, took my
penknife from my pocket, and cut the strings that tied it. Unwrapping
the paper, there was disclosed to view a very antique-looking leather
case or cover--a pocketbook or portfolio to all appearance. I undid
the worn strap that fastened it, and it fell open, showing a number
of leaves of musty parchment, written over with a quaint and crabbed
chirography, such as could not have been in vogue for a good deal more
than a century, to say the least.