Stories of Mystery | Page 6

very gravely.
"I feel queerly to-day, little Netty," he began, after a short pause. "My
nerves are all high-strung with the turn matters have taken."
"How is it, papa? The headache?" she answered.

"Y-e-s--n-o--not exactly; I don't know," he said dubiously; then, in an
absent way, "it was that letter set me to think of him all day, I suppose."
"Why, pa, I declare," cried Netty, starting up, "if I didn't forget all
about it, and I came down expressly to give it to you! Where is it? Oh!
here it is."
She drew from her pocket an old letter, faded to a pale yellow, and
gave it to him. The ghost started suddenly.
"Why, bless my soul! it's the very letter! Where did you get that,
Nathalie?" asked Dr. Renton.
"I found it on the stairs after dinner, pa."
"Yes, I do remember taking it up with me; I must have dropped it," he
answered, musingly, gazing at the superscription. The ghost was gazing
at it, too, with startled interest.
"What beautiful writing it is, pa," murmured the young girl. "Who
wrote it to you? It looks yellow enough to have been written a long
time since."
"Fifteen years ago, Netty. When you were a baby. And the hand that
wrote it has been cold for all that time."
He spoke with a solemn sadness, as if memory lingered with the heart
of fifteen years ago, on an old grave. The dim figure by his side had
bowed its head, and all was still.
"It is strange," he resumed, speaking vacantly and slowly, "I have not
thought of him for so long a time, and to-day--especially this evening--I
have felt as if he were constantly near me. It is a singular feeling."
He put his left hand to his forehead, and mused,--his right clasped his
daughter's shoulder. The phantom slowly raised its head, and gazed at
him with a look of unutterable tenderness.
"Who was he, father?" she asked with a hushed voice.

"A young man, an author, a poet. He had been my dearest friend, when
we were boys; and, though I lost sight of him for years,--he led an
erratic life,--we were friends when he died. Poor, poor fellow! Well, he
is at peace."
The stern voice had saddened, and was almost tremulous. The spectral
form was still.
"How did he die, father?"
"A long story, darling," he replied, gravely, "and a sad one. He was
very poor and proud. He was a genius,--that is, a person without an
atom of practical talent. His parents died, the last, his mother, when he
was near manhood. I was in college then. Thrown upon the world, he
picked up a scanty subsistence with his pen, for a time. I could have got
him a place in the counting-house, but he would not take it; in fact, he
wasn't fit for it. You can't harness Pegasus to the cart, you know.
Besides, he despised mercantile life, without reason, of course; but he
was always notional. His love of literature was one of the rocks he
foundered on. He wasn't successful; his best compositions were too
delicate, fanciful, to please the popular taste; and then he was full of the
radical and fanatical notions which infected so many people at that time
in New England, and infect them now, for that matter; and his
sublimated, impracticable ideas and principles, which he kept till his
dying day, and which, I confess, alienated me from him, always staved
off his chances of success. Consequently, he never rose above the
drudgery of some employment on newspapers. Then he was terribly
passionate, not without cause, I allow; but it wasn't wise. What I mean
is this: if he saw, or if he fancied he saw, any wrong or injury done to
any one, it was enough to throw him into a frenzy; he would get black
in the face and absolutely shriek out his denunciations of the
wrongdoer. I do believe he would have visited his own brother with the
most unsparing invective, if that brother had laid a harming finger on a
street-beggar, or a colored man, or a poor person of any kind. I don't
blame the feeling; though with a man like him it was very apt to be a
false or mistaken one; but, at any rate, its exhibition wasn't sensible.
Well, as I was saying, he buffeted about in this world a long time,

poorly paid, fed, and clad; taking more care of other people than he did
of himself. Then mental suffering, physical exposure, and want killed
him."
The stern voice had grown softer than a child's. The same look of
unutterable tenderness brooded on the mournful face of the phantom by
his side; but its thin, shining hand was laid upon