Dead Men Tell No Tales, E. W. Hornung [early readers .txt] 📗

as his one deplorable trait. Yet even this displayed his characteristic merit of frankness. Nor was it at all unpleasant to hear his merry, boyish laughter ringing round hall and gallery, ere it died away against a dozen closed doors.

And there were other elements of good cheer: a log fire blazing heartily in the old dog-grate, casting a glow over the stone flags, a reassuring flicker into the darkest corner: cold viands of the very best: and the finest old Madeira that has ever passed my lips.

Now, all my life I have been a “moderate drinker” in the most literal sense of that slightly elastic term. But at the sad time of which I am trying to write, I was almost an abstainer, from the fear, the temptation—of seeking oblivion in strong waters. To give way then was to go on giving way. I realized the danger, and I took stern measures. Not stern enough, however; for what I did not realize was my weak and nervous state, in which a glass would have the same effect on me as three or four upon a healthy man.

Heaven knows how much or how little I took that evening! I can swear it was the smaller half of either bottle—and the second we never finished—but the amount matters nothing. Even me it did not make grossly tipsy. But it warmed my blood, it cheered my heart, it excited my brain, and—it loosened my tongue. It set me talking with a freedom of which I should have been incapable in my normal moments, on a subject whereof I had never before spoken of my own free will. And yet the will to—speak—to my present companion—was no novelty. I had felt it at our first meeting in the private hotel. His tact, his sympathy, his handsome face, his personal charm, his frank friendliness, had one and all tempted me to bore this complete stranger with unsolicited confidences for which an inquisitive relative might have angled in vain. And the temptation was the stronger because I knew in my heart that I should not bore the young squire at all; that he was anxious enough to hear my story from my own lips, but too good a gentleman intentionally to betray such anxiety. Vanity was also in the impulse. A vulgar newspaper prominence had been my final (and very genuine) tribulation; but to please and to interest one so pleasing and so interesting to me, was another and a subtler thing. And then there was his sympathy—shall I add his admiration?—for my reward.

I do not pretend that I argued thus deliberately in my heated and excited brain. I merely hold that all these small reasons and motives were there, fused and exaggerated by the liquor which was there as well. Nor can I say positively that Rattray put no leading questions; only that I remember none which had that sound; and that, once started, I am afraid I needed only too little encouragement to run on and on.

Well, I was set going before we got up from the table. I continued in an armchair that my host dragged from a little book-lined room adjoining the hall. I finished on my legs, my back to the fire, my hands beating wildly together. I had told my dear Rattray of my own accord more than living man had extracted from me yet. He interrupted me very little; never once until I came to the murderous attack by Santos on the drunken steward.

“The brute!” cried Rattray. “The cowardly, cruel, foreign devil! And you never let out one word of that!”

“What was the good?” said I. “They are all gone now—all gone to their account. Every man of us was a brute at the last. There was nothing to be gained by telling the public that.”

He let me go on until I came to another point which I had hitherto kept to myself: the condition of the dead mate's fingers: the cries that the sight of them had recalled.

“That Portuguese villain again!” cried my companion, fairly leaping from the chair which I had left and he had taken. “It was the work of the same cane that killed the steward. Don't tell me an Englishman would have done it; and yet you said nothing about that either!”

It was my first glimpse of this side of my young host's character. Nor did I admire him the less, in his spirited indignation, because much of this was clearly against myself. His eyes flashed. His face was white. I suddenly found myself the cooler man of the two.

“My dear fellow, do consider!” said I. “What possible end could have been served by my stating what I couldn't prove against a man who could never be brought to book in this world? Santos was punished as he deserved; his punishment was death, and there's an end on't.”

“You might be right,” said Rattray, “but it makes my blood boil to hear such a story. Forgive me if I have spoken strongly;” and he paced his hall for a little in an agitation which made me like him better and better. “The cold-blooded villain!” he kept muttering; “the infernal, foreign, blood-thirsty rascal! Perhaps you were right; it couldn't have done any good, I know; but—I only wish he'd lived for us to hang him, Cole! Why, a beast like that is capable of anything: I wonder if you've told me the worst even now?” And he stood before me, with candid suspicion in his fine, frank eyes.

“What makes you say that?” said I, rather nettled.

“I shan't tell you if it's going to rile you, old fellow,” was his reply. And with it reappeared the charming youth whom I found it impossible to resist. “Heaven knows you have had enough to worry you!” he added, in his kindly, sympathetic voice.

“So much,” said I, “that you cannot add to it, my dear Rattray. Now, then! Why do you think there was something worse?”

“You hinted as much in town: rightly or wrongly I gathered there was something you would never speak about to living man.”

I turned from him with a groan.

“Ah! but that had nothing to do with Santos.”

“Are you sure?” he cried.

“No,” I murmured; “it had something to do with him, in a sense; but don't ask me any more.” And I leaned my forehead on the high oak mantel-piece, and groaned again.

His hand was upon my shoulder.

“Do tell me,” he urged. I was silent. He pressed me further. In my fancy, both hand and voice shook with his sympathy.

“He had a step-daughter,” said I at last.

“Yes? Yes?”

“I loved her. That was all.”

His hand dropped from my shoulder. I remained standing, stooping, thinking only of her whom I had lost for ever. The silence was intense. I could hear the wind sighing in the oaks without, the logs burning softly away at my feet And so we stood until the voice of Rattray recalled me from the deck of the Lady Jermyn and my lost love's side.

“So that was all!”

I turned and met a face I could not read.

“Was it not enough?” cried I. “What more would you have?”