Dead Men Tell No Tales by E. W. Hornung (interesting novels in english TXT) 📕

“It is strange,” he said, with a shudder, followed by the biggest sip of brandy-and-water he had taken yet. “It must have been horrible - horrible!” he added to himself, his dark eyes staring into the fire.

“Ah!” said I, “it was even more horrible than you suppose or can ever imagine.”

I was not thinking of myself, nor of my love, nor of any particular incident of the fire that still went on burning in my brain. My tone was doubtless confidential, but I was meditating no special confidence when my companion drew one with his next words. These, however, came after a pause, in which my eyes had fallen from his face, but in which I heard him emptying his glass.

“What do you mean?” he whispered. “That there were other circumstances - things which haven’t got into the papers?”

“God knows there were,” I answered, my face in my hands; and, my grief brought home to me, there I sat with it in the presence of that stranger, without compunction and without shame.

He sprang up and paced the room. His tact made me realize my weakness, and I was struggling to overcome it when he surprised me by suddenly stopping and laying a rather tremulous hand upon my shoulder.

“You - It wouldn’t do you any good to speak of those circumstances, I suppose?” he faltered.

“No: not now: no good at all.”

“Forgive me,” he said, resuming his walk. “I had no business - I felt so sorry - I cannot tell you how I sympathize! And yet - I wonder if you will always feel so?”

“No saying how I shall feel when I am a man again,” said I. “You see what I am at present.” And, pulling myself together, I rose to find my new friend quite agitated in his turn.

“I wish we had some more brandy,” he sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late to get any now.”

“And I’m glad of it,” said I. “A man in my state ought not to look at spirits, or he may never look past them again. Thank goodness, there are other medicines. Only this morning I consulted the best man on nerves in London. I wish I’d gone to him long ago.”

“Harley Street, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Saw you on his doorstep, by Jove!” cried Rattray at once. “I was driving over to Hampstead, and I thought it was you. Well, what’s the prescription?”

In my satisfaction at finding that he had not been dogging me intentionally (though I had forgotten the incident till he reminded me of it), I answered his question with unusual fulness.

“I should go abroad,” said Rattray. “But then, I always am abroad; it’s only the other day I got back from South America, and I shall up anchor again before this filthy English winter sets in.

Was he a sailor after all, or only a well-to-do wanderer on the face of the earth? He now mentioned that he was only in England for a few weeks, to have a look at his estate, and so forth; after which he plunged into more or less enthusiastic advocacy of this or that foreign resort, as opposed to the English cottage upon which I told him I had set my heart.

He was now, however, less spontaneous, I thought, than earlier in the night. His voice had lost its hearty ring, and he seemed preoccupied, as if talking of one matter while he thought upon another. Yet he would not let me go; and presently he confirmed my suspicion, no less than my first impression of his delightful frankness and cordiality, by candidly telling me what was on his mind.

“If you really want a cottage in the country,” said he, “and the most absolute peace and quiet to be got in this world, I know of the very hing on my land in Lancashire. It would drive me mad in a week; but if you really care for that sort of thing - “

“An occupied cottage?” I interrupted.

“Yes; a couple rent it from me, very decent people of the name of Braithwaite. The man is out all day, and won’t bother you when he’s in; he’s not like other people, poor chap. But the woman s all there, and would do her best for you in a humble, simple, wholesome sort of way.”

“You think they would take me in?”

“They have taken other men - artists as a rule.”

“Then it’s a picturesque country?”

“Oh, it’s that if it’s nothing else; but not a town for miles, mind you, and hardly a village worthy the name.”

“Any fishing?”

“Yes - trout - small but plenty of ‘em - in a beck running close behind the cottage.”

“Come,” cried I, “this sounds delightful! Shall you be up there?”

“Only for a day or two,” was the reply. “I shan’t trouble you, Mr. Cole.”

“My dear sir, that wasn’t my meaning at all. I’n only sorry I shall not see something of you on your own heath. I can’t thank you enough for your kind suggestion. When do you suppose the Braithwaites could do with me?”

His charming smile rebuked my impatience.

“We must first see whether they can do with you at all,” said he. “I sincerely hope they can; but this is their time of year for tourists, though perhaps a little late. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. As a matter of fact, I’m going down there to-morrow, and I’ve got to telegraph to my place in any case to tell them when to meet me. I’ll send the telegram first thing, and I’ll make them send one back to say whether there’s room in the cottage or not.”

I thanked him warmly, but asked if the cottage was close to Kirby Hall, and whether this would not be giving a deal of trouble at the other end; whereupon he mischievously misunderstood me a second time, saying the cottage and the hall were not even in sight of each other, and I really had no intrusion to fear, as he was a lonely bachelor like myself, and would only be up there four or five days at the most. So I made my appreciation of his society plainer than ever to him; for indeed I had found a more refreshing pleasure in it already than I had hoped to derive from mortal man again; and we parted, at three o’clock in the morning, like old fast friends.

“Only don’t expect too much, my dear Mr. Cole,” were his last words to me. “My own place is as ancient and as tumble-down as most ruins that you pay to see over. And I’m never there myself because - I tell you frankly - I hate it like poison!”