Part 50 (1/2)

She entreated me, she begged of me in tears and anguish, not to ask her to leave me.

”No, no, no. I was obdurate. Oh, I must have been hard-hearted--mad, even.

”She went away. She sailed in a s.h.i.+p bound for France, a Spanish barque.”

Castizo paused, and I could see the tears in his eyes by the light of the fire.

”And the s.h.i.+p was wrecked?” said Peter.

I had never seen Peter look so strange before; he appeared almost wild.

”The s.h.i.+p,” said Castizo, slowly, almost solemnly, ”must have foundered at sea, for I never saw nor heard of her more, nor of my poor dear wife and baby. That is my story: that is the key to the seeming mystery of my restlessness, and of my love for being alone at times. That is all.”

”No,” cried Peter, half rising from the rec.u.mbent position he had resumed when Castizo began to speak. ”No, my friend Castizo; that is not all. That is not all, Jack. Is it?”

”I think not,” I said, and I was almost as excited now as Peter, while Jill, too, sat up with his eyes fixed on Castizo's face, on which was a look of mingled curiosity and amazement.

”_I_ will finish the story,” continued Peter, speaking as slowly as he could. ”I knew your daughter Zenona the moment I first saw her at Puentas Arenas. I knew her eyes, her strangely beautiful face; I knew her hair, her wondrous hair. We have her counterpart at home, in the old house by the sea, where dwell Jack's mother and aunt. You have heard them,”--he pointed to Jill and me--”you have heard them speak of their sister Mattie. Mattie is that counterpart.”

”I do not understand,” said Castizo.

”Nay, but listen, and you shall. The s.h.i.+p in which your poor wife and child were sent home, did not founder at sea. She was wrecked on the coast of Cornwall, and went in pieces next day. Not a timber of her was saved, her very name would have been unknown but that two sailors out of all the crew were saved, and your wife and child.”

”My wife and child! Say those words again!”

”Do not let me raise hopes, my friend, that must end in disappointment.

The lady died.”

Castizo fell back with a moan, but sat up once more as Peter went on talking.

”But the child lived; is living now--at least so we must hope, for we left her well. _She is their adopted sister Mattie_.”

”This is indeed a strange ending to my story. What name did the s.h.i.+p so cast away sail by.”

Peter was silent.

”Neither Jill nor I remember,” I replied. ”We are not quite sure we ever heard it. One of the s.h.i.+pwrecked sailors was killed. The other, whose name is Adriano, I have lost sight of for many a long year.”

Castizo's face fell.

”There was no such man on board the _Zen.o.bia_. I knew every man in the barque. Ha, Peter, my dear boy, I fear it was someone else's s.h.i.+p, someone else's wife and child. Can you give me the date?”

”Alas!” I said, ”I cannot even do that for certain. It was a fisherman's boat that saved those who were saved. It was the fisherman's wife who kept the child, till by accident she became our sister. There is no other clue.”

”Was there not a large chest,” said Peter.

”Yes,” I said. Then I described the box most minutely to Castizo. It was such a strange box, taller than it was broad, the length and width the same, and painted blue.

It was Castizo's turn now to show anxiety and excitement. He made me describe the box over and over again. I even took a pencil and sketched it from memory on a fly-leaf of the Bible dear mother had given me when a boy.