Dead Men Tell No Tales by E. W. Hornung (bts books to read .TXT) 📖

me finish! Jose will come round here to look for me. But you and I will be hiding on the other side of these rhododendrons. And when we hear him here we'll make a dash for it across the long grass. Once let us get the door shut and locked in his face, and he'll be in a trap. It will take him some time to break in; time enough to give us a start; what's more, when he finds us gone, he'll do what they all used to do in any doubt.”

“What's that?”

“Say nothing till it's found out; then lie for their lives; and it was their lives, poor creatures on the Zambesi!” She was silent a moment, her determined little face hard—set upon some unforgotten horror. “Once we get away, I shall be surprised if it's found out till morning,” concluded Eva, without a word as to what I was to do with her; neither, indeed, had I myself given that question a moment's consideration.

“Then let's make a dash for it now!” was all I said or thought.

“No; they can't come yet, and Jose is strong and brutal, and I have heard how ill you are. That you should have come to me notwithstanding—” and she broke off with her little hands lying so gratefully on my shoulders, that I know not how I refrained from catching her then and there to my heart. Instead, I laughed and said that my illness was a pure and deliberate sharp, and my presence there its direct result. And such was the virtue in my beloved's voice, the magic of her eyes, the healing of her touch, that I was scarce conscious of deceit, but felt a whole man once more as we two stood together in the moonlight.

In a trance I stood there gazing into her brave young eyes. In a trance I suffered her to lead me by the hand through the rank, dense rhododendrons. And still entranced I crouched by her side near the further side, with only unkempt grass-plot and a weedy path between us and that ponderous door, wide open still, and replaced by a section of the lighted hail within. On this we fixed our attention with mingled dread and impatience, those contending elements of suspense; but the black was slow to reappear; and my eyes stole home to my sweet girl's face, with its glory of moonlit curls, and the eager, resolute, embittered look that put the world back two whole months, and Eva Denison upon the Lady Jermyn's poop, in the ship's last hours. But it was not her look alone; she had on her cloak, as the night before, but with me (God bless her!) she found no need to clasp herself in its folds; and underneath she wore the very dress in which she had sung at our last concert, and been rescued in the gig. It looked as though she had worn it ever since. The roses were crushed and soiled, the tulle all torn, and tarnished some strings of beads that had been gold: a tatter of Chantilly lace hung by a thread: it is another of the relics that I have unearthed in the writing of this narrative.

“I thought men never noticed dresses?” my love said suddenly, a pleased light in her eyes (I thought) in spite of all. “Do you really remember it?”

“I remember every one of them,” I said indignantly; and so I did.

“You will wonder why I wear it,” said Eva, quickly. “It was the first that came that terrible night. They have given me many since. But I won't wear one of them—not one!”

How her eyes flashed! I forgot all about Jose.

“I suppose you know why they hadn't room for you in the gig?” she went on.

“No, I don't know, and I don't care. They had room for you,” said I; “that's all I care about.” And to think she could not see I loved her!

“But do you mean to say you don't know that these—murderers—set fire to the ship?”

“No—yes! I heard you say so last night.”

“And you don't want to know what for?”

Out of politeness I protested that I did; but, as I live, all I wanted to know just then was whether my love loved me—whether she ever could—whether such happiness was possible under heaven!

“You remember all that mystery about the cargo?” she continued eagerly, her pretty lips so divinely parted!

“It turned out to be gunpowder,” said I, still thinking only of her.

“No—gold!”

“But it was gunpowder,” I insisted; for it was my incorrigible passion for accuracy which had led up to half our arguments on the voyage; but this time Eva let me off.

“It was also gold: twelve thousand ounces from the diggings. That was the real mystery. Do you mean to say you never guessed?”

“No, by Jove I didn't!” said I. She had diverted my interest at last. I asked her if she had known on board.

“Not until the last moment. I found out during the fire. Do you remember when we said good-by? I was nearly telling you then.”

Did I remember! The very letter of that last interview was cut deep in my heart; not a sleepless night had I passed without rehearsing it word for word and look for look; and sometimes, when sorrow had spent itself, and the heart could bleed no more, vain grief had given place to vainer speculation, and I had cudgelled my wakeful brains for the meaning of the new and subtle horror which I had read in my darling's eyes at the last. Now I understood; and the one explanation brought such a tribe in its train, that even the perilous ecstasy of the present moment was temporarily forgotten in the horrible past.

“Now I know why they wouldn't have me in the gig!” I cried softly.

“She carried four heavy men's weight in gold.”

“When on earth did they get it aboard?”

“In provision boxes at the last; but they had been filling the boxes for weeks.”

“Why, I saw them doing it!” I cried. “But what about the gig? Who picked you up?”

She was watching that open door once more, and she answered with notable indifference, “Mr. Rattray.”

“So that's the connection!” said I; and I think its very simplicity was what surprised me most.

“Yes; he was waiting for us at Ascension.”

“Then it was all arranged?”

“Every detail.”

“And this young blackguard is as bad as any of them!”

“Worse,” said she, with bitter brevity. Nor had I ever seen her look so hard but once, and that was the night before in the old justice hall, when she told Rattray her opinion of him to his face. She had now the same angry flush, the same set mouth and scornful voice; and I took it finally into my head that she was unjust to the poor devil, villain though he was. With all his villainy I declined to believe him as bad as