"Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library."
"'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye, sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a bottle of burgundy, vintage '81."
"And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left in the house," said I.
"He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little newborn moisture on his dry lips.
"Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that burgundy of theirs now."
And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines.
"You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go on with my story."
"I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "after what I have read of the Grierson horrors."
The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book! Oh, it was never found."
"I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard.
"Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this apartment."
"Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to know more. Go on, Francis."