I looked up at him inquiringly, and, of purpose, a little sceptically.
He smiled something sadly and continued: “Oh, I know you think it foolishness. But remember that all sailors are more or less superstitious: it is bred in them; it is constitutional, and I am afraid there’s a good deal of the sailor in me yet.”
Remembering Hungerford, I said: “I know that sailors are superstitious, the most seasoned of them are that. But it means nothing. I may think or feel that there is going to be a plague, but I should not enlarge the insurance on my life because of it.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and looked down at me earnestly. “But, Marmion, these things, I assure you, are not matters of will, nor yet morbidness. They occur at the most unexpected times. I have had such sensations before, and they were followed by strange matters.”
I nodded, but said nothing. I was still thinking of Hungerford. After a slight pause he continued somewhat hesitatingly:
“I dreamed last night, three times, of events that occurred in my past; events which I hoped would never disturb me in the life I am now leading.”
“A life of self-denial,” ventured I. I waited a minute, and then added: “Roscoe, I think it only fair to tell you--I don’t know why I haven’t done so before--that when you were ill you were delirious, and talked of things that may or may not have had to do with your past.”
He started, and looked at me earnestly. “They were unpleasant things?”
“Trying things; though all was vague and disconnected,” I replied.
“I am glad you tell me this,” he remarked quietly. “And Mrs. Falchion and Justine Caron--did they hear?” He looked off to the hills.
“To a certain extent, I am sure. Mrs. Falchion’s name was generally connected with--your fancies.... But really no one could place any weight on what a man said in delirium, and I only mention the fact to let you see exactly on what ground I stand with you.”
“Can you give me an idea--of the thing I raved about?”
“Chiefly about a girl called Alo, not your wife, I should judge--who was killed.”
At that he spoke in a cheerless voice: “Marmion, I will tell you all the story some day; but not now. I hoped that I had been able to bury it, even in memory, but I was wrong. Some things--such things--never die. They stay; and in our cheerfulest, most peaceful moments confront us, and mock the new life we are leading. There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.” He turned again from me and set a sombre face towards the ravine. “Roscoe,” I said, taking his arm, “I cannot believe that you have any sin on your conscience so dark that it is not wiped out now.”