Now, this private hotel of mine was a very old fashioned house, dark and dingy4 all day long, with heavy old chandeliers and black old oak, and dead flowers in broken flower-pots surrounding a grimy grass-plot in the rear. On this latter my bedroom window looked; and never am I likely to forget the vile5 music of the cats throughout my first long wakeful night there. The second night they actually woke me; doubtless they had been busy long enough, but it was all of a sudden that I heard them, and lay listening for more, wide awake in an instant. My window had been very softly opened, and the draught6 fanned my forehead as I held my breath.
A faint light glimmered7 through a ground-glass pane8 over the door; and was dimly reflected by the toilet mirror, in its usual place against the window. This mirror I saw moved, and next moment I had bounded from bed.
The mirror fell with a horrid9 clatter10: the toilet-table followed it with a worse: the thief had gone as he had come ere my toes halted aching amid the debris11.
A useless little balcony—stone slab12 and iron railing—jutted out from my window. I thought I saw a hand on the railing, another on the slab, then both together on the lower level for one instant before they disappeared. There was a dull yet springy thud on the grass below. Then no more noise but the distant thunder of the traffic, and the one that woke me, until the window next mine was thrown up.
“What the devil's up?”
The voice was rich, cheery, light-hearted, agreeable; all that my own was not as I answered “Nothing!” for this was not the first time my next-door neighbor had tried to scrape acquaintance with me.
“But surely, sir, I heard the very dickens of a row?”
“You may have done.”
“I was afraid some one had broken into your room!”
“As a matter of fact,” said I, put to shame by the undiminished good-humor of my neighbor, “some one did; but he's gone now, so let him be.”
“Gone? Not he! He's getting over that wall. After him—after him!” And the head disappeared from the window next mine.
I rushed into the corridor, and was just in time to intercept13 a singularly handsome young fellow, at whom I had hardly taken the trouble to look until now. He was in full evening dress, and his face was radiant with the spirit of mischief14 and adventure.
“For God's sake, sir,” I whispered, “let this matter rest. I shall have to come forward if you persist, and Heaven knows I have been before the public quite enough!”
His dark eyes questioned me an instant, then fell as though he would not disguise that he recollected15 and understood. I liked him for his good taste. I liked him for his tacit sympathy, and better still for the amusing disappointment in his gallant16, young face.
“I am sorry to have robbed you of a pleasant chase,” said I. “At one time I should have been the first to join you. But, to tell you the truth, I've had enough excitement lately to last me for my life.”
“I can believe that,” he answered, with his fine eyes full upon me. How strangely I had misjudged him! I saw no vulgar curiosity in his flattering gaze, but rather that very sympathy of which I stood in need. I offered him my hand.
“It is very good of you to give in,” I said. “No one else has heard a thing, you see. I shall look for another opportunity of thanking you to-morrow.”
“No, no!” cried he, “thanks be hanged, but—but, I say, if I promise you not to bore you about things—won't you drink a glass of brandy-and-water in my room before you turn in again?”
Brandy-and-water being the very thing I needed, and this young man pleasing me more and more, I said that I would join him with all my heart, and returned to my room for my dressing-gown and slippers17. To find them, however, I had to light my candles, when the first thing I saw was the havoc18 my marauder had left behind him. The mirror was cracked across; the dressing-table had lost a leg; and both lay flat, with my brushes and shaving-table, and the foolish toilet crockery which no one uses (but I should have to replace) strewn upon the carpet. But one thing I found that had not been there before: under the window lay a formidable sheath-knife without its sheath. I picked it up with something of a thrill, which did not lessen19 when I felt its edge. The thing was diabolically20 sharp. I took it with me to show my neighbor, whom I found giving his order to the boots; it seemed that it was barely midnight, and that he had only just come in when the clatter took place in my room.
“Hillo!” he cried, when the man was gone, and I produced my trophy21. “Why, what the mischief have you got there?”
“My caller's card,” said I. “He left it behind him. Feel the edge.”
I have seldom seen a more indignant face than the one which my new acquaintance bent22 over the weapon, as he held it to the light, and ran his finger along the blade. He could have not frowned more heavily if he had recognized the knife.
“Didn't you?” he asked quickly. “Yes, yes, to be sure! There was at least one other beggar skulking25 down below.” He stood looking at me, the knife in his hand, though mine was held out for it. “Don't you think, Mr. Cole, that it's our duty to hand this over to the police? I—I've heard of other cases about these Inns of Court. There's evidently a gang of them, and this knife might convict the lot; there's no saying; anyway I think the police should have it. If you like I'll take it to Scotland Yard myself, and hand it over without mentioning your name.”
“Oh, if you keep my name out of it,” said I, “and say nothing about it here in the hotel, you may do what you like, and welcome! It's the proper course, no doubt; only I've had publicity26 enough, and would sooner have felt that blade in my body than set my name going again in the newspapers.”
“I understand,” he said, with his well-bred sympathy, which never went a shade too far; and he dropped the weapon into a drawer, as the boots entered with the tray. In a minute he had brewed27 two steaming jorums of spirits-and-water; as he handed me one, I feared he was going to drink my health, or toast my luck; but no, he was the one man I had met who seemed, as he said, to “understand.” Nevertheless, he had his toast.
“Here's confusion to the criminal classes in general,” he cried; “but death and damnation to the owners of that knife!”
And we clinked tumblers across the little oval table in the middle of the room. It was more of a sitting-room28 than mine; a bright fire was burning in the grate, and my companion insisted on my sitting over it in the arm-chair, while for himself he fetched the one from his bedside, and drew up the table so that our glasses should be handy. He then produced a handsome cigar-case admirably stocked, and we smoked and sipped29 in the cosiest31 fashion, though without exchanging many words.
You may imagine my pleasure in the society of a youth, equally charming in looks, manners and address, who had not one word to say to me about the Lady Jermyn or my hen-coop. It was unique. Yet such, I suppose, was my native contrariety, that I felt I could have spoken of the catastrophe32 to this very boy with less reluctance33 than to any other creature whom I had encountered since my deliverance. He seemed so full of silent sympathy: his consideration for my feelings was so marked and yet so unobtrusive. I have called him a boy. I am apt to write as the old man I have grown, though I do believe I felt older then than now. In any case my young friend was some years my junior. I afterwards found out that he was six-and-twenty.
I have also called him handsome. He was the handsomest man that I have ever met, had the frankest face, the finest eyes, the brightest smile. Yet his bronzed forehead was low, and his mouth rather impudent34 and bold than truly strong. And there was a touch of foppery about him, in the enormous white tie and the much-cherished whiskers of the fifties, which was only redeemed35 by that other touch of devilry that he had shown me in the corridor. By the rich brown of his complexion36, as well as by a certain sort of swagger in his walk, I should have said that he was a naval37 officer ashore38, had he not told me who he was of his own accord.
“By the way,” he said, “I ought to give you my name. It's Rattray, of one of the many Kirby Halls in this country. My one's down in Lancashire.”
“I suppose there's no need to tell my name?” said I, less sadly, I daresay, than I had ever yet alluded39 to the tragedy which I alone survived. It was an unnecessary allusion40, too, as a reference to the foregoing conversation will show.
“Well, no!” said he, in his frank fashion; “I can't honestly say there is.”
“It must seem strange to you to be sitting with the only man who lived to tell the tale!”
The egotism of this speech was not wholly gratuitous42. I thought it did seem strange to him: that a needless constraint43 was put upon him by excessive consideration for my feelings. I desired to set him at his ease as he had set me at mine. On the contrary, he seemed quite startled by my remark.
“It is strange,” he said, with a shudder44, followed by the biggest sip30 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 confidential45, but I was meditating46 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 tact47 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.
“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 agitated49 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 prescription50?”
In my satisfaction at finding that he had not been dogging me intentionally51 (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 filthy52 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 forth53; after which he plunged54 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 hearty55 ring, and he seemed preoccupied56, 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 delightful57 frankness and cordiality, by candidly58 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 thing 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 humble59, simple, wholesome60 sort of way.”
“You think they would take me in?”
“They have taken other men—artists as a rule.”
“Then it's a picturesque61 country?”
“Oh, it's that if it's nothing else; but not a town for miles, mind you, and hardly a village worthy62 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'm 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?”
“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 mischievously65 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 appreciation66 of his society plainer than ever to him; for indeed I had found a more refreshing67 pleasure in it already than I had hoped to derive68 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!”
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1
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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frugally
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| adv. 节约地, 节省地 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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7
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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diabolically
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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26
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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27
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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28
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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31
cosiest
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| adj.温暖舒适的( cosy的最高级 )；亲切友好的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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41
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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42
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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43
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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44
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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45
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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46
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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47
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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48
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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49
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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50
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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51
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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52
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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55
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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56
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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57
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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58
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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59
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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60
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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61
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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62
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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63
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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65
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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66
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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67
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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