It was midnight when we swung from our moorings and steamed out of the harbor, and, the sea being rough and I a bad sailor, I did not venture on the upper deck until nearly lunch time the following day. I was not too well. The sea was not placid, the air was damp and chill, and--well--I was not happy.
The decks were "sparsely populated," and as I was slowly zigzagging my way along, in a sense of utter loneliness, raising my eyes, my attention was aroused by the presence of what seemed a familiar figure. It was the graceful form of a tall, well-proportioned young man. His face was pale, his head was bent forward, he leaned heavily over the starboard railing of the vessel, and I imagined that he, too, was not well. I did not recognise him, but sympathy and curiosity, and, perhaps, custom, lead me half unconsciously to his side. I said to him soothingly, "It is rather rough to-day." He raised himself a little, leaned a little further over the ship's railing, and made a convulsive movement. He was "not well," but raising himself more erectly, he turned towards me slightly, and ironically said, "Thanks, so I have been informed." The "tone" of the expression was unkind, for my motives were good and my conduct was as wise as the occasion would suggest.
His voice limped piteously, but it had something in it of old familiarity. "You?" said I. My voice also had in it to him something of old familiarity. I looked in his face. He returned my gaze. The recognition was mutual.
"You have come to bring unholy memories," said I.
"And you have come to reproach me," said he, in tones of agony I shall never forget.
"No," said I, "Leo Bergin, I give my hand. 'Let the dead past bury its dead.' Look not sorrowfully over the past--it comes not again--but with resolute heart and strong hand brave the future, and thou shall find a crown or a grave. List--not another word of the past; but, Leo Bergin, what of the future?"
"Thou art kind," said he, with bowed head, and in good Bible phrase, "but I ill deserve your generosity."
"List," said I again, "Leo, what of the future?"
"The future?" said he, with bowed head, downcast eye, and awfully solemn voice, "the future? Because I know the past I feign would die; because I know not the future, I am cowardly enough to live. You know, my friend, my benefactor, that I have talent, good looks, and industry, but the world," said he more sadly, "is against me."