The Laughing Mill, and Other Stories — John Stuart Mill — John Shaqi
The Laughing Mill, and Other Stories
John Stuart Mill · en
I had intended relating my vision to Mr. Poyntz on the spot where it
occurred; but I know not what reluctance prevented me. It was too solemn
and inexplicable an experience to bear discussion so soon. So, instead
of that, I told him, as we trudged homewards together, the history of
the Feuerberg family, and how all tended to ratify my conviction that
Agatha and I were cousins, though far removed. And I may remark here
that he and I between us had afterwards no difficulty (what with his
documents and my knowledge) in establishing the relationship beyond a
doubt. "But," I added, as we stood on the brow of the slope overlooking
the old house, and saw Agatha appear round the corner and kiss her hand
to us, "but she and I are the last of our race, and there is no great
fortune awaiting us, that I know of. Only, Mr. Poyntz, I love her with
my whole heart; if she can love me, will you trust her to me?"
"Nay, ye mustn't ask me," replied the ancient mariner, grasping my hand,
with tears in his old blue eyes. "I doubt she loves you well, already.
And so do we all, for ye're a man, all be a quiet one. 'Twill be hard
parting with her, as has been sunshine to us this many a year; but ye'll
bring her to see the old folks, as time serves; and I'm bold for to
believe ye'll be as happy as the day is long."
It is twenty years since then, and old Jack Poyntz's prophecy has proved
true. My wife is wont to say, with a smile in her dark eyes, that our
prosperity is due to the restored virtue of the pearl-shell necklace,
which still rests upon her bosom. To me, however, the necklace seems but
as the symbol of the true love whose radiance has blessed our lives, and
brought us better luck than any witchcraft can bestow.
CALBOT'S RIVAL.
I.
The bitter cold weather out of doors made the cosy glow of my little
library even more than usually grateful. I had carried the warm and
bright anticipation of it close-buttoned under my top-coat throughout
my cold drive in the hansom from the South-Western Railway Station to
my rooms on the Thames Embankment. But now, as I stepped in and shut
the door behind me, I found I had done it less than justice.