The Lust of Hate - Guy Newell Boothby (english love story books txt) 📗
- Author: Guy Newell Boothby
- Performer: -
Book online «The Lust of Hate - Guy Newell Boothby (english love story books txt) 📗». Author Guy Newell Boothby
hypnotic influence I now feel certain; but at the time I seemed to be
acting on my own initiative, and Nikola to be only playing the part
of the deus ex machina.
At last I began to weary of my walk, so, hailing a hansom, I
directed the driver to convey me back to my hotel. As I passed
through the hall the clock over the billiard-room door struck six,
and on hearing it I became aware that in one other particular I had
fulfilled Nikola’s orders. After dinner I went into the smoking-room,
and, seating myself in an easy chair before the fire, lit a cigar.
Before I had half smoked it I was fast asleep, dreaming that I was
once more in Australia and tossing on a bed of sickness in the Mail
Change at Markapurlie. A more vivid dream it would be impossible to
imagine. I saw myself, pale and haggard, lying upon the bed,
unconscious of what was passing around me. I saw Bartrand and Gibbs
standing looking down at me. Then the former came closer, and bent
over me. Next moment he had taken a paper from the pocket of my
shirt, and carried it with him into the adjoining bar. A few minutes
Later he returned with it and replaced it in the pocket. As he did so
he turned to the landlord, who stood watching him from the doorway,
and said—“You’re sure he’s delirious, that he’s not shamming?”
“Shamming? Poor beggar,” answered Gibbs, who after all was not
such a bad fellow at heart. “Take a good look at him and see for
yourself. I hope I may never be as near gone as he is now.”
“So much the better,” said Bartrand with a sneer, as he stepped
away from the bed. “We’ll save him the trouble of making us his
legatees.”
“You don’t mean to steal the poor beggar’s secret, surely?”
replied Gibbs. “I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought that.”
“More fool you then,” said Bartrand. “Of course I’m not going to
steal it, only to borrow it. Such chances don’t come twice in
a lifetime. But are you sure of your facts? Are you certain the old
fellow said there was gold enough there to make both of them
millionaires half-a-dozen times over?”
“As certain as I’m sitting here,” answered Gibbs.
“Very good; then I’m off tonight for the Boolga Ranges. In ten
days I’ll have the matter settled, and by the time that dog there
gets on to his feet again we’ll both be on the high road to
fortune.”
“And I’m only to have a quarter of what you get? It’s not fair,
Bartrand.”
Bartrand stepped up to him with that nasty, bullying look on his
face that I knew so well of old.
“Look here, my friend,” he said, “You know Richard Bartrand, don’t
you? And you also know what I can tell about you. I offer you a
fourth of the mine for your information, but I don’t give it to you
for the reason that I’m afraid of you, for I’m not. Remember I know
enough of your doings in this grog shanty to hang you a dozen times
over; and, by the Lord Harry, if you make yourself a nuisance to me
I’ll put those on your track who’ll set you swinging. Stand fast by
me and I’ll treat you fair and square, but get up to any hanky-panky
and I’ll put such a stopper on your mouth that you’ll never be able
to open it again.”
Gibbs leaned against the door with a face like lead. It was
evident that however much he hated Bartrand he feared him a good deal
more. A prettier pair of rogues it would have been difficult to find
in a long day’s march.
“You needn’t be afraid, Mr. Bartrand,” he said at last, but this
time in no certain voice. “I’ll not split on yon as long as you treat
me fairly. You’ve been a good friend to me in the past, and I know
you mean me well though you speak so plain.”
“I know the sort of man with whom I have to deal, you see,”
returned Bartrand with another nasty sneer. “Now I must get my horse
and be off. I’ve a lot to do if I want to get away tonight.”
He went out into the verandah and unhitched his reins from the
nails on which they were hanging.
“Let me have word directly that carrion in there comes to himself
again,” he said, as he got into the saddle. “And be sure you never
breathe a word to him that I’ve been over. I’ll let you know all that
goes on as soon as we’ve got our claim fixed up. In the meantime,
mum’s the word. Good-bye.”
Gibbs bade him good-bye, and when he had watched him canter off
across the plain returned to the room where I lay. Evidently his
conscience was reproving him, for he stood by my bed for some minutes
looking down at me in silence. Then he heaved a little sigh and said
under his breath, “You miserable beggar, how little you know what is
happening, but I’m bothered if I don’t think after all that you’re a
dashed sight happier than I am. I’m beginning to wish I’d not given
you away to that devil. The remembrance of it will haunt me all my
life long.”
I woke up with his last speech ringing in my ears, and for a
moment could scarcely believe my own eyes. I had imagined myself back
in the bush, and to wake up in the smoking room of a London hotel was
a surprise for which I was not prepared. The clock over the door was
just striking eleven as I rose to my feet and went out into the hall.
Taking my coat down from a peg I put it on, and then, donning my hat
and turning up my collar, went out into the street. Snow was still
falling, and the night was bitterly cold. As I walked I thought again
of the dream from which I had just wakened. It seemed more like a
vision intended for my guidance than the mere imagining of an
over-excited brain. How much would I not have given to know if it was
only imagination, or whether I had been permitted to see a
representation of what had really happened? This question, however, I
could not of course answer.
On reaching the Strand I hailed a hansom and bade the driver
convey me with all speed to 28, Great Gunter Street, Soho.
“Twenty-three, Great Gunter Street?” repeated the man, staring at
me in surprise. “You don’t surely mean that, sir?”
“I do,” I answered. “If you don’t like the job I can easily find
another man.”
“Oh, I’ll take you there, never fear, sir,” replied the man; “but
I didn’t know perhaps whether you was aware what sort of a crib it
is. It’s not the shop gentlemen goes to as a general rule at night
time, except maybe they’re after a dog as has been stole, or the
like.”
“So it’s that sort of place is it?” I answered.
“Well, I don’t know that it matters. I’m able to take care of
myself.”
As I said this I got into the vehicle, and in half a minute we
were driving down the Strand in the direction of Soho. In something
under a quarter of an hour we had left Leicester Square behind us,
crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and turned into Great Gunter Street. It
proved to be exactly what the driver had insinuated, neither a
respectable nor a savoury neighbourhood; and when I saw it and its
inhabitants I ceased to wonder at his hesitation. When he had
proceeded half-way down the street he pulled his horse up before the
entrance to what looked like a dark alley leading into a court.
Realising that this must be my destination I opened the apron and
sprang out.
“Number 23 is somewhere hereabouts, sir,” said the driver, who
seemed to derive a certain amount of satisfaction from his ignorance
of the locality. “I don’t doubt but what one of these boys will be
able to tell you exactly.”
I paid him his fare and sixpence over for his civility, and then
turned to question a filthy little gutter urchin, who, with bare feet
and chattering teeth, was standing beside me.
“Where is 23, my lad?” I inquired. “Can you take me to it?”
“Twenty-three, sir?” said the boy. “That’s where Crooked Billy
lives, sir. You come along with me and I’ll show you the way.”
“Go ahead then,” I answered, and the boy thereupon bolted into the
darkness of the alley before which we had been standing. I followed
him as quickly as I could, but it was a matter of some difficulty,
for the court was as black as the Pit of Tophet, and seemed to twist
and turn in every conceivable direction. A more unprepossessing place
it would have been difficult to find. Half-way down I heard the boy
cry out ‘Hold up, mother!’ and before I could stop I found myself
in collision with a woman who, besides being unsteady on her legs,
reeked abominably of gin. Disengaging myself, to the accompaniment of
her curses, I sped after my leader, and a moment later emerged into
the open court itself. The snow had ceased, and the three-quarter
moon, sailing along through swift flying clouds, showed me the
surrounding houses. In one or two windows, lights were burning,
revealing sights which almost made my flesh creep with loathing. In
one I could see a woman sewing as if for her very life by the light
of a solitary candle stuck in a bottle, while two little children lay
asleep, half-clad, on a heap of straw and rags in the corner. On my
right I had a glimpse of another room, where the dead body of a man
was stretched upon a mattress on the floor, with two old hags seated
at a table beside it, drinking gin from a black bottle, turn and turn
about. The wind whistled mournfully among the roof tops; the snow had
been trodden into a disgusting slush everywhere, save close against
the walls, where it still showed white as silver; while the
reflection of the moon gleamed in the icy puddles golden as a spade
guinea.
“This is number 23,” said my conductor, pointing to the door
before which he stood.
I rewarded him, and then turned my attention to the door
indicated.
Having rapped with my knuckles upon the panel, I waited for it to
be opened to me. But those inside were in no hurry, and for this
reason some minutes elapsed before I heard anyone moving about; then
there came the sound of shuffling feet, and next moment the door was
opened an inch or two, and a female voice inquired with an
oath—which I will omit—what was wanted and who was wanting it.
To the first query I replied by asking if Levi Solomon lived
there, and, if he did, whether I could see him. The second I shirked
altogether. In answer I was informed that Levi Solomon did reside
there, and that if I was the gentleman who had called to see him
about a hansom cab I was to come in at once.
The door was opened to me, and I immediately stepped into the
grimiest, most evil-smelling passage it has ever been my ill luck to
set foot in. The walls were soiled and stained almost beyond
recognition; the floor was littered with orange peel, paper, cabbage
leaves, and garbage of
Comments (0)