_By_ Compton Mackenzie
_Royal Navy_
I am not a man naturally fond of adventure, but on the contrary have
preserved from earliest youth an ambition to stay at home and watch from
a sunny window-seat the orderly course of humanity along an orderly
street.
Fortune, however, by depriving my parents of everything except myself,
and myself of everything except a flute, made me a raggle-taggle
wanderer, dependent for my livelihood on the charms of music.
Ignorant of luxury through the exigencies of a nomadic existence, I
owned nevertheless a very fastidious taste which often led me to despise
the miseries of my situation—so much so that I believe I would rather a
thousand times depend on the hard ground than sacrifice my sensibility
in the endurance of an uncongenial bedfellow.
So much by way of explaining the following adventure, which was actually
produced by my inability to suffer a common hardship of the wanderer’s
lot.
On a December dusk of the year 1753, I found myself, with apparently no
prospect of a lodging, on a bleak high-road in the middle of Cornwall.
What horrid impulse took me to that barbarous peninsula, I cannot now
recall exactly; but probably my journey was connected with some roadside
rumour of prosperity to be found in the West of England at the holiday
season.
My first experience of Cornish hospitality was not happy; for, having
begun to flute merrily in the yard of an outlying farmhouse, the savage
owner loosed a pair of lean hounds, who followed me with a very odious
barking nearly half a mile along the road. I was determined to avoid
such places in future, and to keep my breath for a town, where the
amenity of a closer social intercourse might have evolved a more
generous spirit among the inhabitants.
With gloomy thoughts I trudged on, without a glimpse of any village or
hamlet, or even of an isolated dwelling such as I had lately tried.
The night was coming up fast behind me, and I was already pondering the
imminent extinction of my life’s flame in the wind-swept bogs on either
side of the path, when I came suddenly on a small inn, not visible
before on account of the road’s curve and a clump of firs shorn and
blistered by the prevailing wind.
Here I asked for a bed; but on being informed that I must share it with
a degraded idiot whom I perceived slobbering in a corner of the taproom,
I scorned the accommodation and inquired the distance and direction of
the nearest village.
“There’s no village for another five mile or more,” said the landlord.
“What’s your trade, master?”
I did not wish to gratify the bumpkin’s curiosity; but reflecting that I
might hear of a junketing in the neighbourhood, told him I was a
musician.
“Then why don’t ’ee make for Cannebrake?” he asked.
“Cannebrake?” I exclaimed. “How on earth shall I make for a place of
whose existence I am only this moment aware?”
“Never heard of Cannebrake o’ the Starlings?” he exclaimed. “Why, ’tis a
famous place here around, and the old lord he might be proud to listen
to a parcel o’ music. Come, I’ll show ’ee the road.”
A burst of gibberish from the idiot made up my mind, and I hurried after
the landlord, who with much circumlocution described my route. I left
him by the inn door, and when I turned once or twice to wave a farewell,
saw him still standing there, a white patch in the fading light.
I passed, according to his directions, a dry tree, a slab of granite
shaped like an elephant’s back, and a stretch of waste water stuck here
and there with withered reeds like an old brush, until I reached a tall
Celtic cross that leaned very forbiddingly towards the path. Here a side
track dipped down from the main road to a valley whose ample vegetation
contrasted strangely with the barren moors above. My path was soon
overarched with trees. A smell of damp woodland pervaded its gloom, and
my footsteps were muffled by the drift of wet leaves. Had it not been
for the deep ruts into which from time to time I slipped, I should have
concluded I had missed the path and was penetrating towards the heart of
a forest.
I emerged from the avenue at last; though by now it was so dark that
only the fresher air and the rasping of my feet on stones told me I was
again in open country. But it was impossible to advance, and I was
beginning to regret the inn and rail at myself for objecting to the
idiot’s company, when I saw above a black hill-top the yellow rim of the
full moon, whose light, increasing every moment, was presently strong
enough to show me I was not fifty yards from the great gates of
Cannebrake.
Yet I was half afraid to set them creaking in the silence, so menacing
were they between their tall stone pillars, so complete was the absence
of any welcome.
I have often had occasion to visit the seats of the nobility and gentry
in more civilised corners of England, and the air of abandonment that
surrounded the entrance of Cannebrake did not seem to consort with the
traditions of any famous or honoured name.
The very moonlight in that hollow was tainted with a miasma, setting no
clear contrasts of shadow and silver, robbing the pillars of all
solidity and giving the landscape the tremulous outlines of a
half-remembered dream.
I had never before experienced the sensation of absolute decay. I had
been affected by the fall of autumn leaves from dripping branches, by
the melting of ice on warm winter mornings; but here dissolution was
silent, without a curlew’s cry or lisp of withered grass to mark its
accomplishment.
At last, by an effort of common sense, I pushed the gates ajar, and the
creaking of them, as they swung back upon their hinges, followed me up
the moss-grown drive with a wailful indignation.
The shrubbery planted round the gates did not extend far, and the drive
soon unfolded its direction, running straight and bare over a wide,
undulating grassland populated with the shadowy forms of cattle, to the
doors of Cannebrake—a long, low building of the undistinguished
architecture which I had already learned to associate with Cornish
houses.
I stood awhile contemplating the mansion that seemed impalpable in the
webs of the moon.
There was neither barking of dogs nor any sign of human life until I
observed the shadow of a man carrying from room to room of the second
story a circle of candlelight increasing and diminishing with each
entrance and exit. I supposed it to be a servant’s nightly round of
inspection, and, assured of the existence of life within, moved across
to the heavily nailed door.
I would have pulled at once the great iron bell-chain, had it not been
for a strange disinclination to destroy the quiet with so wild a sound.
As it was, I stood there holding my breath, I believe, while I
deciphered the coat-of-arms above the door—a medley of Turks’ heads and
birds.
Then, with the slight knowledge of French gleaned on my wanderings, I
fell to translating the motto of the family, “Aux amis l’amour, aux
ennemis la mort.”
Notwithstanding the pledge of this sentiment in stone, I could not spur
myself into arousing the inmates; but as there was a rank growth of
grass between the drive and the house itself, I availed myself of its
quiet to crawl round and peer unheard into the windows on the ground
floor.
On a closer view of the window to the right of the door, I saw glinting
on the darkness of heavy curtains a thin line of light. Without more ado
I pulled out my flute and started “Come, Lasses and Lads.”
This harmless old air seemed to produce a most distressing effect upon
the inmates, for the curtains were immediately flung back and an elderly
gentleman, with wig all awry and hands tugging at his stock, stared out
into the night as if afraid of hell.
I tapped gently with my flute upon the lattice, and in response to my
knocking, but with evident dismay, my listener was persuaded to throw it
open.
Whether the sight of him pale and horror-struck had led me to expect a
timid inquiry as to my business, I do not know, but I doubt if I ever
heard so deep a voice from any human creature before. It rumbled like a
bull’s and, I vow, alarmed me more than the music of my instrument had
alarmed its owner.
A horrid stream of blasphemies heralded his demand to know my business.
“My name, my lord, is Tripconey—Peter Tripconey, a flute-player, and
your lordship’s very humble, obedient servant to command.”
This frank avowal had the effect of slightly mitigating his wrath, and
he was pleased to ask me what I did in his park at such an ungodly hour.
“Indeed, my lord, I was sent here.”
“Sent here, you vagabond? By whom?”
“By an inn-keeper who plies a poor trade on the desolate moors adjacent
to your lordship’s estate.”
He seemed relieved by my information, and was gracious enough to ask if
I could play any sea-songs. I answered I could play and sing the “Ballad
of the Golden Vanity” and many more besides, as well as any man alive.
“Hark ’ee, Cynthia,” he said, turning to address another inmate.
“There’s a musician outside. Shall we have him in, girl? Shall we have a
merry-making? The poor wretch looks as if a good supper would do him no
harm. Hi, sirrah, can you eat?” he asked, turning round again to me.
I assured him I had a very tolerable appetite, and he bade me ring the
bell forthwith, vowing he would give me bed and board for a night’s
music. I made haste to obey his orders, and when I stepped into the
great hall, lighted by a score of candles and the blaze of a gigantic
fire roaring on the hearth, was glad I had done so.
His lordship with much condescension presented me to his daughter, the
Honourable Miss Cynthia Starling, who received me with the courtesy it
delights a woman of rank to exercise. In the presence of this lovely
creature I threw off every evil foreboding, and made haste to entertain
the noble company with as much wit as I could command. I may say I was
very successful.
His lordship laughed very heartily at all my sallies, and once or twice
I plainly detected a faint smile pass over the classic features of the
honourable and handsome young woman.
His lordship excused himself from joining me at supper, pointing out
with much intelligence that, having already dined, a second meal so soon
after the other would be likely to injure his night’s rest. I cordially
agreed with him, and drank his health in a pint bumper of a very level
and solid old Burgundy. His lordship was pleased to acknowledge my
toast, and indeed went so far as to drink prosperity to the humble
flute-player sheltered by his hospitable roof.
When I had eaten as much as I wanted, my host called out in his great
voice for the butler, whom I disliked at first sight. He was a tall,
thin man, with pouched eyes and an unnaturally sleek face the colour of
tallow. His hands were hairy, blue with gunpowder, and criss-crossed
with livid scars.
However, I soon forgot him in racking my memory for the old sea-tunes
which his lordship wished to hear. The latter sat upright in the ingle,
beating time to the choruses with his ebony cane, or rather
crutched-stick, which he leaned upon very heavily in his walk, being, as
I supposed, a sufferer from the gout. The crutch itself was very massive
and bound with gold bands.
I also played some polite melodies for the pleasure of her ladyship,
which she commended very earnestly; but when she had wished us a good
night and retired to her chamber, my Lord Cannebrake set out to curse
all love-songs and country dances, and bade me get back immediately to
the sea-tunes which he loved so well.
Presently he called for the butler, Springle, and to my surprise, and I
may add profound vexation, invited him to take a chair by the fire and
join in the choruses. I was shocked to see the familiar way in which
this fellow treated his master, and, for my own part, was quick to put
the insolent rogue in his place as often as I could, thus showing him
very plainly how I esteemed his presumption.
One or two of my hits went very well with his lordship; and though Mr.
Springle snarled at me from his chair, I was not at all afraid to bait
him whenever the circumstances of the conversation gave me an
opportunity.
“Springle,” said his lordship after a round of tunes, “Mr. Tripconey
must whet his whistle. Bring in another bottle of Burgundy and warm me a
noggin of rum.”
I was amazed to hear a nobleman favour the plebeian beverage of rum, and
still more deeply amazed to hear his butler answer him very saucily,
“Aye, aye,” without offering to move himself.
“Get up, you impudent swab!” bellowed Lord Cannebrake. “What! Disobey
orders, would you, you dog! You whimpering, sneering, dirty ship’s
steward.”
Mr. Springle, perceiving he had made too free with his master’s
affableness, rose at once and slunk from the hall.
My Lord Cannebrake growled to himself awhile, and then sat moodily
silent, staring into the fire.
I seized the occasion of the butler’s absence to ask him point blank why
the first sounds of my flute had alarmed him so violently. “For,” said
I, “there is nothing surprising at this jolly season of the year, when
waits and mummers are abroad, in hearing the sound of music by night.”
“Did I look frightened, eh?” asked his lordship. “Hah, and I was
frightened, woundily frightened. I come, sir, of a plaguy old family,
and I live in a plaguy old house, and I’ve inherited very little else
but a plaguy crew of ghosts.”
“And you mistook me for one of ’em?” I laughed.
“We Starlings,” he went on, “like most old families, have our omens and
death cries and what not, and it has always been accounted very ill work
for a Starling to hear a starling’s whistle.”
I was somewhat put about to learn that my playing had been mistaken for
a vulgar bird’s whistle, but, concealing my annoyance very genteely,
laughed the matter off.
[Illustration: “‘Springle,’ his lordship gasped. ‘Springle, I’ve killed
him, ha’n’t I?’” (page 113).]
“Indeed, my lord, I believe that is the first time that ever my flute
was taken for a bird.”
“Yes,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, “yes, I heard that
whistle forty days out from Sierra Leone, and the next day we was
flinging half-cooked niggers into the sea and——”
He stopped suddenly and looked me full in the face, but I thought his
mind was wandering and paid small attention to his wild words.
“And I heard it again when we were careening in the Pearl Islands off
Panama just before I was took with Yellow Jack, but I’ve never heard it
since till to-night. Ecod, I don’t like being my Lord Cannebrake, with
ghosts thick as seagulls round about. I was happier before; I was
happier in the pleasant Isle of Thanet with the sea-wind singing day and
night round my cottage. I used to do nothing mostly, except sight the
craft beating round the Foreland, and think of ’em so white and handsome
in the Downs, a-stroking all the while my little daughter’s light-brown
hair. And now look at me, stuck in a low, dirty swamp ten miles from the
sound of breakers, wi’ nothing to think of but ghosts. That’s bad for a
man who, mark you, was a-seafaring once. But there came an ague and took
one; and another broke his neck out hunting; and the third, he fell into
the pool fishing for carp; and so I became Lord Cannebrake.”
I was at a loss to know why this elderly nobleman honoured me with his
confidence, but ascribed it to the influence of the old sea-songs and my
own insignificance, for I doubt he never thought me a person of much
importance, and he went on with his monologue without seeming to expect
any comment from me.
“Then there’s Cynthia. Cannebrake’s no place for a high-spirited young
woman. London’s the place for her, where she can meet women of quality
and learn the ways of fashion. She’s a sweet maid. I never knew a
sweeter. But what’s to become of her, buried alive, in a manner of
speaking, and like to grow into a mumbling, fumbling old maid with
nothing to watch all her life but the sun’s rise and set, and winter
coming in cold, and the spring-time rain, and a few flowers of summer?”
Here I made bold to offer a suggestion that he should go back to the
Isle of Thanet.
“Ah, why don’t I, Mr. Flute-player? I’ll tell you why,” and he leaned
over, whispering in my ear:
“Because I dare not. Because I lived a vile, bad life when I was young,
and I’m afraid. That’s a terrible thing for you to ponder, Mr.
Tripconey—an old man living alone in a dip of these wild moors—afraid.
Listening to the clock tick-ticking, and all the time fast afraid.
You’ve seen me, white and shaking, when you tapped on the window:
me—Captain Starling—afraid.”
Springle’s entrance with rum enough for half a dozen put an end to
further reminiscence.
“Why, Conrad,” said his lordship, “why, Conrad, boy, I see you’ve set a
glass for yourself. That was thoughtful of you, Conrad.”
Then suddenly the old man’s fury broke out—very terrible.
“And so you’d make a nincompoop of me before my guests, would you? Below
deck, you swab!” he roared, and, picking up one of the heavy cut-glass
goblets, flung it between the butler’s legs as he hurried from the hall.
Lord Cannebrake laughed and made me fill up my glass, while he poured
out for himself an extra strong allowance of rum.
“Master Springle thinks he can do as he likes because I give him a
moderate amount of freedom, seeing that we were shipmates once.”
“It is indeed a condescension on your side, my lord, for which the
fellow shows himself monstrous ungrateful. I drink your lordship’s very
good health.”
He acknowledged the compliment by draining his glass to me, and I could
not forbear my admiration to see how he poured the fiery liquor down his
throat at a single gulp. I myself, a timid drinker, could never have
survived the quarter of it sipped slowly. When he had put down his glass
I saw that he was sniffing the air as a stag sniffs for water.
“Tell me,” he demanded, “can you smell sea-water?”
So unusual a question put me in some confusion, for if I laughed it
aside I would have seemed to suspect him of drunkenness. I determined
therefore to humour his fancy, and told him very gravely that I could
not smell sea-water.
“I doubt it’s my fancy,” he muttered. “Or rum. Rum more likely.” With
which he gulped down a second glass even stronger than the former. All
at once a horrid cry rang through the house. The long-drawn echo of it
froze my blood and set my glass clinking against the decanter in a
tumult of apprehension.
“What’s that?” gasped his lordship. And here let me assure you, he
looked as much alarmed as myself. I threw a glance up to the gallery,
expecting to see her ladyship in bed-gown peering over the balustrade.
But there was nothing.
Then Springle, his face as livid as the criss-cross scars on his hand,
burst into the hall.
“Cap’n Starling! Cap’n Starling!” he cried.
“Aye, aye,” muttered my lord in the dead voice of profoundest agitation.
“Cap’n Starling!” moaned the butler.
“Eh, what!” exclaimed his master. “Who the plague are you calling
’cap’n’? Ha’n’t you learned ’tis ‘my lord’ nowadays?”
“To blazes wi’ lords,” chattered Springle. “Sea-lords and land-lords.
Here’s Cap’n Swall walking up the path to this house.”
“Cap’n Swall?” repeated his lordship. “Cap’n Swall? Here, give me the
rum, my handsome.”
He drained the glass a third time, which seemed to calm his excitement.
“This ain’t a fancy of yours, Conrad?”
“No fancy, my lord. I seed him quite plain and the stars a-shining
through his wicked bow legs as he come down the slope. But let him
come!” Springle almost screamed. “Let the swab come! We’re too many for
him, with pleasant talk of old ships and a knife that goes in easy and
quick like.”
I confess I was amazed by the coolness with which the rascal proposed to
murder a fellow-creature, and was relieved to hear his lordship
discourage the notion.
“None of that,” he commanded. “None of that. If ’tis Matthew Swall, ’tis
him; and maybe there’s a reckoning, and maybe there isn’t, but none of
that. If ’tis man to man, him and me, ’tis out in the moonlight with
ship’s cutlasses and you and Mr. Tripconey here to see fair play. So
drink the rum, you cowardly dog, and stand by.”
Springle swallowed the spirit, and the three of us waited in silence
till there came a ringing peal from the great bell, a peal that echoed
jangling and clanging through Cannebrake of the Starlings.
“Must I let him in, cap’n?” whispered Springle.
There was a tap-tap on the lattice, but when we turned towards the sound
the curtains were close drawn and we knew the man outside could not see
us.
“Let him in,” said his lordship, standing up very stern.
Conrad moved sideways to the door, and what with the way he kept
twitching his hairy hands, and what with his chestnut-brown suit and his
manner of walking, I could not help comparing him to a large crab.
Captain Swall followed the servant into his master’s presence. He was a
short, thickset, squab-nosed man, much weather-beaten, and wearing a
soiled blue coat trimmed with gold lace frayed and tarnished. In his
right hand he carried a cocked beaver hat, in the other a pistol.
Flinging down the hat, he went with outstretched palm right up to Lord
Cannebrake, saying:
“Well, if this don’t beat pay-day. Messmate, how are ye? Lord Cannebrake
now, ain’t it? And here’s Conrad Springle and a bottle of rum and
Matthew Swall of the _Happy Return_, and—why, bless me,” he added,
catching sight of me, “here’s a strange face after all.”
His lordship never offered to present me, but, coming sharp to the
point, said:
“I thought you were dead, Matthew.”
“I know ye did, Dicky. Nor more isn’t that very astonishing seeing as I
thought I were dead myself. It was a cunning move of yourn, Dicky, that
’ere sheering off in Jamestown. It was a clever trick, when you thought
you’d quit being a gentleman of fortune, to leave me laying low with
Yellow Jack, and not a single golden George to so much as spit on, not a
single golden George to get me clear of Virginia and the tobacco
planters. And I was took, Dicky. I was took all right and sold five
hundred miles up country, to a Frenchman whose throat I slit so as he
died quicker nor ever you’d think a man could die.”
“Mr. Tripconey,” said his lordship to me, “I think you’ll find your
bedroom prepared. Springle, show Mr. Tripconey to his chamber.”
The butler, with many a backward glance to where the two sea-captains
sat facing one another in the firelight, led me up the wide stairs and
parted from me by the door of my room without so much as a good night.
Now whether the wicked flavour of Captain Swall’s conversation had
fascinated my imagination, or whether the Burgundy had fired my blood
with an inquisitiveness foreign to my nature, I do not know, but for the
life of me I could not help wondering how it fared with the party
downstairs. I resented being shut up out of sight and sound in this
gaunt bedchamber; and at last, no longer able to bear my ignorance, I
snuffed the candle and crept barefooted along the black corridor as far
as the opening to the hall. Here, by kneeling close to the wall and
peering through the balustrade, I could see and hear all that was
happening below. I ran but small risk of discovery; for, as I reasoned,
it would be easy to gain my room noiselessly while any one from below
was ascending the stairs.
Lord Cannebrake and his visitor were still seated facing one another,
while Springle was standing, well out of the way of both, at the farther
end of the hall.
“But I don’t want to fight, Dicky,” Captain Swall was saying. “I done
with fighting long ago. This here pop I holds in my hand so pretty,
that’s not for fighting; that’s for protection, Dicky, in case you was
to leave me once again on a lee-shore. No, I don’t want no revenge nor
nothing, Dicky. But seeing as how I’m tired of roaming, and finds it
dull at the _Prospect of Whitby_ down by Wapping Stairs, I’ve a mind to
sling my hammock in Cannebrake.”
“So you think you’re going to live at my expense, do you?” asked his
lordship grimly. “But you’re not. I don’t feed ruffians like you,
Matthew Swall.”
“Turned pious, have ye?” sneered the other. “Took to religion, maybe?
Changed the name of your ship? That’s a main unlucky thing to do, and
by——” He swore an abominable oath. “By—— it won’t go down with me, not
with old Matthew. Springle, my lad, it looks as if you was ship’s cook
aboard here. Let’s see the quality of your beef.”
I could not help feeling greatly delighted by Mr. Springle’s
discomfiture as he stood there in a fine quandary.
“What! Mutiny, Conrad?” the captain went on, as the butler made no offer
to move. “You was quicker at obeying orders in the old days, Conrad. You
was a long way more spry arter I sarved you with your six dozen lashes.
You become quite a handy lad arter that. Quick and handy with that ’ere
clasp-knife of yourn, Conrad, when you done for the crew of the _True
Love_ what was lying on their backs off Calabar a-waiting for you to
obey orders. Come, look alive, my lad, or you’ll find yourself in Bodmin
Gaol, and ’tis Cap’n Swall who says so.”
Springle, cowed by the fierce intruder, gave up defiance and went to
fetch the victuals.
“That’s a nice little place Conrad’s got himself,” continued Swall, with
one eye cocked very wickedly at Lord Cannebrake.
“Do you want to be my butler?” demanded the latter.
“No, I wouldn’t rob Conrad. There’s room for both of us. Maybe you’ve
got a snug little cabin somewhere between decks, a snug little berth
where you and me and Conrad ’ll be able to talk over old times and old
ships. Better you and I should talk over ’em quiet and comfortable and
snug like, with the rum going round as it ought to in a genelman’s
country house. Better nor talking over ’em at the Old Bailey. Why,
you’ve a darter, haven’t you, Dicky? What ’ud she say if she went for a
cruise down the river one lovely morning in the summer-time, and seed
her father, black as a crow, swinging in the wind at Execution Dock?”
“You won’t blackmail me,” said my lord.
“Blackmail, is it? By the Lord,” shouted Captain Swall, “Black Flag’s
more the lay.”
“Be careful, Matthew. You know I’m a hot-blooded man. You know I won’t
stand too much.”
“Aye, by the plague, and you know mine, Dick Starling, and it ain’t lost
nothing these twenty years of waiting. Look ’ee here, it comes to this.
You’ve got a darter. Well.” Again he swore that fearful oath. “If you
don’t give me your darter—for I won’t be put off with no fine words
after Jamestown, Dicky; I’ll have something of yours as you vally—I’ll
have your young maid, or you swing for piracy.”
But even while he threatened, shaking the pistol, Lord Cannebrake struck
hard with his stick and Captain Swall fell forward among the glasses on
the table.
“Springle,” his lordship gasped. “Springle, I’ve killed him, ha’n’t I?”
Then I saw that the butler was standing in the corner, a plate of beef
in his hand. He came forward and, setting down the plate, shook the
sprawling figure.
“Aye, aye, he’s dead as his beef,” said Springle.
“We’ll bury the body quick, Conrad. Wait. I’ll see he has no friends
outside.”
I could not help wondering at the old nobleman’s pluck as I saw him move
towards the door, and thought of him marching round that desolate house
with Heaven knows how many bloodthirsty enemies ambushed in the shadows.
When his master had left the hall, Springle shook the body more roughly,
and to my horror, for I thought him stone dead, Captain Swall muttered
thickly:
“Curse you, Dicky, you nearly done for me a second time, but you’ll
pay—you’ll pay.”
“Look ’ee here, Cap’n Swall,” said Springle, turning the wounded man
over and staring into his eyes. “Two’s company at Cannebrake, but three
ain’t. You sent me off for beef. You had me flogged once. You’ve run
aground, Cap’n Swall.”
Here the fiend caught his enemy by the throat, and, as he squeezed the
life out of the thickset man, spoke through clenched teeth:
“You’re making port at last, Cap’n Swall. I’ll lay Davy Jones is about
signalling your sperrit now.”
I suppose I should have interrupted the man’s villainy, but by this
time, between cramp and terror, I could do nothing but lie quaking on
the cold floor of the gallery.
Lord Cannebrake came back in a minute or two.
“He’s dead?”
“Dead,” said the murderer.
“And nobody will know,” said his lordship, with a sigh of relief.
“Not if I don’t peach.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“Why, just this here, my lord. I’m tired of being butler. I wants
promotion. I reckon you’ll sign some sort of a parlez-vous as’ll ensure
my promotion.”
Lord Cannebrake seemed stricken by his servant’s treachery.
“Are you going to turn against me, Conrad?”
“You’ve been a fool,” said the latter—“a fool for twenty years. Afraid
o’ what I might say about the _Jolly Roger_. What could I ha’ done, a
pore ignorant seaman? What was my word against Lord Cannebrake’s? You
might ha’ cut me adrift long ago. But now you can’t. Now things is
different. Here’s murder stepped in on my side.”
“Aye, it has!” I shouted, springing up. “Black-hearted, cold murder; but
it’s you, Mr. Springle, that’s the murderer. My lord, my lord, he
strangled Captain Swall when you were outside. That villain there—that
ruffian——”
In my bare feet, and waving my flute, I came dancing down the stairs—a
ludicrous figure, I dare swear, but jubilant at having outwitted the
butler.
He had his knife out in a flash, and I owed my life to his lordship,
who, without a thought of the scandal, picked up the dead man’s pistol
and shot his servant through the back, so that he fell huddled at the
foot of the staircase.
Then Lord Cannebrake and I looked at each other with two bodies between
us.
“Her ladyship?” I said.
“We’ll have to tell her.”
I felt sorry for the old man who had kept his secret so many years. But
the hall was now running with Conrad’s blood, and I thought we should do
well enough to escape the law.
Her ladyship came along the gallery, very pale and beautiful.
“What is it, father? I heard a shot.”
“A bad night’s work, my lady-love,” said the father gently. “But Mr.
Tripconey here has saved Cannebrake.”
“And his lordship has saved me,” I cried.
“Then we should all be grateful,” said my lady, very calm.
I slept prodigious little that night, and blistered my hands so that I
couldn’t play my flute for a week; but I was always sure for many a year
of a hearty welcome at Cannebrake of the Starlings.