At length, when I had been ashore nearly a fortnight, I noticed that the brig was once more all ataunto and apparently ready for sea. That same night Ricardo entered my room, and, having made exhaustive enquiries as to the state of my health, took a seat by my bedside, with the air of a man who purposed to indulge in a long chat.
“This last fortnight has done wonders for you,” he said. “Thanks to the unremitting care of Lotta and Mammy, I think you will now be able to pull round without any further attention from Fonseca. And that reminds me to tell you that we go to sea at dawn to-morrow, and of course Fonseca goes with us. But he assures me that you now need nothing but good nursing and good feeding to restore you completely, and those Lotta and Mammy will be able to give you. You will not mind my leaving you in their charge, I hope?”
“Oh, no,” I said, “not at all! Indeed, I have to thank you for quite an extraordinary amount of kindness. You could scarcely have done more for me had you been my father.”
“You think so?” he said. “Good! I am glad to hear you say that, because—ah, well, it is useless to think of that now! By the way, is your mother still living?”
“She was when I last heard from home,” said I, “and I hope she will live for many long years to come.”
“I say amen to that,” answered this extraordinary man. “When next you see her, say that Dick Courtenay saved your life—for her sweet sake. And tell her also that, despite everything that was said against me, I was innocent. She will understand what I mean and will believe me, perhaps, after all these years. Ah,” he continued, springing to his feet and striding up and down the room, “if she had but believed me at the time, I should never have become what I now am! Had she had faith in me, I could have borne everything else—shame, disgrace, dishonour, ruin—I could have borne them all. But when to the loss of those was added the loss of her esteem, her respect, her love, it was too much; I had nothing left to live for—save revenge; and by heaven I have had my fill of that!”
“Do you actually mean to say that you were once my mother’s lover?” I gasped.
“Ay,” he answered bitterly, “her accepted lover. And I should have been her husband but for the accursed villainy of one who—but why speak of it? The mischief is done, and is irremediable.”
“Surely you do not pretend to suggest that my father—?” I ejaculated.
“No, certainly not!” he replied quickly. “Do not misunderstand me. It was not your father who was my enemy, oh no! He was my rival for a time, it is true, but he was also my friend, and the very soul of honour. Oh no! the loss of your mother’s love was merely one of many results of a piece of as consummate villainy as ever dragged the honour of a British naval officer in the mire. But, pshaw! let us speak of other things. I suppose you have wondered what are my ultimate intentions toward you, have you not? Well, I will tell you. You once reproached me with having ruined your professional career. My dear boy, have no fear of anything of the kind. It was your misfortune, not your fault, that we were too strong for you, and if Sir Timothy Tompion—oh yes,” in answer to my look of surprise, “I know Sir Timothy quite well, and he knows me, or thinks he does!—if Sir Timothy had only known that he was sending you out to fight the Barracouta, he would have given you, if not a bigger ship, at least twice as heavy an armament, and twice as strong a crew. So, when he comes to hear your story, he will not blame you for failing to take me; have no fear of that. Therefore, because I feel convinced that your ill-success in your fight with me will in nowise prejudice your professional prospects, it is my intention, all being well, to take you to sea with me next trip, and either put you ashore somewhere whence you can easily make your way to Port Royal, or else to put you aboard the first ship bound for Kingston that we may chance to fall in with.