Thomson sat down a few minutes
later, cheek by jowl, and pledged the past in a preliminary
bumper, he was already almost consoled, he had already almost
forgiven himself his two unpardonable errors, that he should
ever have left his native city, or ever returned to it.
'I have something quite in your way,' said Mr. Thomson. 'I
wished to do honour to your arrival; because, my dear fellow,
it is my own youth that comes back along with you; in a very
tattered and withered state, to be sure, but - well! - all
that's left of it.'
'A great deal better than nothing,' said the editor. 'But
what is this which is quite in my way?'
'I was coming to that,' said Mr. Thomson: 'Fate has put it in
my power to honour your arrival with something really
original by way of dessert. A mystery.'
'A mystery?' I repeated.
'Yes,' said his friend, 'a mystery. It may prove to be
nothing, and it may prove to be a great deal. But in the
meanwhile it is truly mysterious, no eye having looked on it
for near a hundred years; it is highly genteel, for it treats
of a titled family; and it ought to be melodramatic, for
(according to the superscription) it is concerned with
death.'
'I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising
annunciation,' the other remarked. 'But what is It?'
'You remember my predecessor's, old Peter M'Brair's
business?'
'I remember him acutely; he could not look at me without a
pang of reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without
betraying it.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82