The Lust of Hate - Guy Newell Boothby (english love story books txt) 📗

showed Miss Maybourne the eggs I had found, she expressed

her great satisfaction, and we immediately cooked a couple to be

ready against the little sufferer’s waking.

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent in carrying drift wood from

the beach to the plateau; for I had determined to keep a good flare

burning all night, in case any ships might happen to pass, and think

it worth their while to stand off and on till daylight should show

them the reason of it. When I had stacked it ready to my hand there

was yet another supply of grass to be cut, with which to improve the

bed-places in the cave. Then my own couch had to be prepared

somewhere within call. After which there was the evening meal to

cook. By the time this was done, darkness had fallen, and our first

night on the island had commenced.

 

When I bade Miss Maybourne “good night” she was kind enough to

express her thanks a second time for the trouble I had taken. As if

the better to give point to her gratitude, she held out her hand to

me. I took it and raised it to my lips. She did not attempt to stop

me, and then, with another “good night,” she passed into the cave,

and I was left alone.

 

For hours I sat watching my blaze and listening to the rumbling of

the surf upon the shore. The night was as still as a night could well

be. Not even a breath of wind was stirring. When I laid myself down

in my corner between the rocks near the cave’s mouth, and fell

asleep, it was to dream of Agnes Maybourne and the happiness that

might have been mine but for the one dread thing which had made it

quite impossible.

 

CHAPTER VII. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

 

LONG before daylight I was awake, thinking of our unenviable

position, and wishing for the ladies’ sakes that I could do something

to improve it. But, as far as I could see, I had done everything that

was possible by mortal man. Somehow, though I valued their eggs above

gold, I had no fancy for the sea-birds themselves. What I wanted most

was a contrivance with which to capture some of the fish in the bay.

A line I could easily make by unravelling the painter of the

lifeboat; the hook, however, beat me. A hair-pin would have done

admirably; but, unfortunately, Miss Maybourne’s hair covered her

shoulders just as she had run up from her cabin on hearing the first

alarm. An ordinary pin would have been invaluable; but among the

three of us we could not muster even one. Just as daylight broke,

however, I solved my difficulty in the simplest fashion possible, and

could have kicked myself round the island, if it had been possible,

for my stupidity in not having thought of it sooner. In my tie I wore

a long gold pin, with an escutcheon top, which had been given me in

Australia years before. The remembrance of it no sooner came into my

mind than I had whipped it out of the tie, and had bent the point

into a fair-sized hook. This done, I rose from my couch between the

rocks, and having replenished the fire, which still showed a red

glow, hastened down the hill side to where the boat lay upon the

sands. Prom the painter I extracted sufficient strands to make a line

some thirty feet long, and to this I attached my hook. I very much

doubt if a fish were ever honoured before with so grand a hook.

 

Just as the sun’s first rays were shooting up beyond the placid

sea line, and the sea and heavens were fast changing from a pure

pearl grey to every known colour of the rainbow, I pushed the boat

into the water, and rowed out for half a mile or so. Then, having

baited my hook with mussel, I threw it overboard, and seating myself,

line in hand, in the stern, awaited results. I looked at the island,

showing so clear and rugged in the bright morning light, and thought

of Miss Maybourne and the sick child. If the truth must be confessed,

I believe I was happier then, even in such straits and upon so

inhospitable a shore, than I had ever been before. When I thought of

Bartrand, as I had last seen him, lying stretched out in the snow in

that quiet street, and remembered my struggle with Nikola in Golden

Square, my walk through sleeping London to Surbiton, and my journey

to Southampton, it all seemed like some horrible dream, the effects

of which I was at last beginning to rid myself. It was hard to

believe that I had really gone through it all; that I, the man now

fishing so quietly in this boat, in whom Miss Maybourne believed so

much, was in reality Gilbert Pennethorne, the perpetrator of one of

the mysterious murders which had entirely baffled the ingenuity of

the London police. I could not help wondering what she would say if

anyone should tell her the true history of the man in whom she placed

such implicit confidence. Would she credit it or not?

 

While I was thinking of this, I felt a sharp tug upon my line, and

when I drew it in, I found, to my delight, a nice fish impaled upon

the hook. Having released him and placed him securely at the bottom

of the boat, I did not lose a moment in throwing the line overboard

again. Within a quarter of an hour I had landed five splendid

fellows, and was as pleased with my success as if I had just been

created Lord Chancellor of England. To-day, at any rate, I told

myself, Miss Maybourne and the little girl should have a nice

breakfast.

 

Arriving “at the beach I sprang out, and, using the same means as

before, drew my boat up out of reach of the tide. Then, taking my

prizes with me, I made my way up the hillside to the plateau. Just

as I reached it, Miss Maybourne made her appearance from the cave and

came towards me.

 

“Look!” I cried, holding up the fish as I spoke, “Are these not

beauties?”

 

“They are indeed splendid,” she answered. “But how did you manage

to obtain them? I thought you said last night that you could think of

no way of making a hook?”

 

“So I did. But since then I have remembered the gold pin I wore in

my tie. I found that it made a most excellent hook, and with its

assistance I managed to get hold of these gentlemen. But, in my

triumph, I am forgetting to enquire how you and your little friend

are this morning. You were fairly comfortable in the cave, I

hope?”

 

“Quite comfortable, thank you,” she answered, gravely. “But poor

little Esther is no better this morning. In fact, if anything, I

fancy she is worse. She was delirious for some time in the night, and

now she is in a comatose condition that frightens me more than her

former restlessness. It goes to my heart to see her in this

state.”

 

“Is there nothing we can do for her, I wonder?” I said, as I

prepared my fish for the fire.

 

“I fear we are powerless,” replied Miss Maybourne. “The only thing

I can imagine to be the matter with her is that she must have been

struck by something when we were sucked under by the sinking ship.

She complains continually of pains in her head.”

 

“In that case, I fear there is nothing for it but to wait

patiently for some ship, with a doctor on board, to come in sight and

take us off.”

 

“In the meantime, she may die. Oh, poor little Esther! Mr.

Wrexford, this helplessness is too terrible.”

 

What could I say to comfort her? In my own mind I saw no hope.

Unless a vessel hove in sight, and she chanced to carry a doctor, the

child must inevitably die. As soon as the breakfast was cooked, I

went into the cave and looked at her. I found the little thing

stretched upon the grass I had thrown down for a bed. She was

unconscious, as Miss Maybourne had said, and was breathing heavily.

Her pulse was almost unnoticeable, and occasionally she moaned a

little, as if in pain. It was a sight that would have touched the

most callous of men, and in spite of that one sinister episode in my

career, I was far from being such a Nero.

 

At midday there was no change perceptible in her condition. By the

middle of the afternoon she was worse. Miss Maybourne and myself took

it in turns to watch by her side; in the intervals, we climbed the

hill and scanned the offing for a sail. Our vigilance, however, was

never rewarded—the sea was as devoid of ships as our future seemed

of hope.

 

After a day which had seemed an eternity, the second night of our

captivity on the island came round. A more exquisite evening could

scarcely be imagined. I had been watching by the sick child’s side

the greater part of the afternoon, and feeling that, if I remained on

shore, Miss Maybourne would discover how low-spirited I was, I took

the boat and rowed out into the bay, to try and obtain some fish for

our supper. This was not a matter of much difficulty, and in less

than a quarter of an hour I had hauled on board more than we could

possibly have eaten in three meals. When I had finished, I sat in my

boat watching the sunset effects upon the island. It was indeed a

scene to remember, and the picture of it, as I saw it then, rises

before me now as clearly as if it were but yesterday.

 

To right and left of the points which sheltered the bay, the deep

green of the sea was changed to creaming froth, where the surf caught

the rocks; but in the little indentation which we had made our home

the wavelets rippled on the sand with the softest rhythm possible.

The sky was cloudless, the air warmer than it had been for days past.

The glow of sunset imparted to the western cliffs a peculiar shade

of pink, the beauty of which was accentuated by the deep shadows

cast by the beetling crags. On the hillside, directly opposite where

my boat was anchored, I could see the plateau, and on it my fire

burning brightly. I thought of the brave woman nursing the sick child

in the cave, and of the difference she had made in my lonely

life.

 

“Oh, God!” I cried, “if only You had let me sea the chance that

was to be mine some day, how easy it would have been for me to have

ordered Nikola and his temptation to stand behind me. Now I see my

happiness too late, and am consequently undone for ever.”

 

As I thought of that sinister man and the influence he had

exercised upon my life, I felt a thrill of horror pass over me. It

seemed dreadful to think that he was still at large, unsuspected, and

in all probability working some sort of evil on another unfortunate

individual.

 

In my mind’s eye I could see again that cold, impassive face, with

its snake-like eyes, and hear that insinuating voice uttering once

more that terrible temptation. Surely, I thought, the dread enemy of

mankind must be just such another as Dr. Nikola.

 

When the sun had disappeared below the sea line, the colour of the

ocean had changed from all the dazzling tints of