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

class="calibre1">“Come, come, young fellow, easy does it,” cried an old miner, who

had come up with, the crowd to enquire the reason of the excitement.

“What’s all this about? What has he done to you?”

 

Without a second’s thought I sprang upon a barrel and addressed

them. Speaking with all the eloquence at my command, I first asked

them if there was anyone present who remembered me. There was a dead

silence for nearly a minute, then a burly miner standing at the back

of the crowd shouted that he did. He had worked a claim next door to

mine at Banyan Creek, he said, and was prepared to swear to my

identity whenever I might wish him to do so. I asked him if he could

tell me the name of my partner on that field, and he instantly

answered “Old Ben Garman.” My identity and my friendship with Ben

having been thus established, I described Ben’s arrival at

Markapurlie, and Bartrand’s treatment of us both. I went on to tell

them how I had nursed the old man until he died, and how on his

deathbed he had told me of the rich find he had made in the Boolga

Ranges. I gave the exact distances, and flourished the chart before

their faces so that all might see it. I next described Gibbs as one

of Bartrand’s tools, and commented upon the ink-stain, on the back of

the plan which had aroused my curiosity after my illness. This done,

I openly taxed Bartrand with having stolen my secret, and dared him

to deny it. As if in confirmation of my accusation, it was then

remembered by those present that he had been the first man upon the

field, and, moreover, that he had settled on the exact spot marked

upon my plan. After this, the crowd began to imagine that there might

really be something in the charge I had brought against the fellow.

Bartrand, I discovered later, had followed his old Queensland

tactics, and by his bullying had made himself objectionable upon the

field. For this reason the miners were not prejudiced in his

favour.

 

In the middle of our dispute, and just at the moment when ominous

cries of “Lynch him” were beginning to go up, there was a commotion

behind us, and presently the Commissioner, accompanied by an escort

of troopers, put in an appearance, and enquired the reason of the

crowd. Having been informed, the great man beckoned me to him and led

me down the hill to the tent, which at that time was used as a Court

House. Here I was confronted with Bartrand, and ordered to tell my

tale. I did so, making the most I could of the facts at my disposal.

The Commissioner listened attentively, and when I had finished turned

to Bartrand.

 

“Where did you receive the information which led you to make your

way to this particular spot?” he asked.

 

“From the same person who gave this man his,” coolly replied

Bartrand. “If Mr. Pennethorne had given me an opportunity, I would

willingly have made this explanation earlier. But on the hill yonder

he did all the talking, and I was permitted no chance to get in a

word.”

 

“You mean to say then,” said the Commissioner in his grave,

matter-of-fact way, “that this Ben Garman supplied you with the

information that led you to this spot—prior to seeing Mr.

Pennethorne.”

 

“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied Bartrand quickly.

“Mr. Pennethorne, who at that time was in my employment as

storekeeper upon Markapurlie Station, was out at one of the boundary

riders’ huts distributing rations when Garman arrived. The latter was

feeling very ill, and not knowing how long he might be able to get

about, was most anxious to find sufficient capital to test this mine

without delay. After enquiry I agreed to invest the money he

required, and we had just settled the matter in amicable fashion when

he fell upon the ground in a dead faint. Almost at the same instant

Mr. Pennethorne put in an appearance and behaved in a most unseemly

manner. Unless his motives are revenge, I cannot conceive, your

worship, why I should have been set upon in this fashion.”

 

The Commissioner turned to me.

 

“What have you to say to this?” he asked.

 

“Only that he lies,” I answered furiously. “He lies in every

particular. He has been my enemy from the very first moment I set

eyes upon him, and I feel as certain as that I am standing before you

now, that Ben Garman did not reveal to him his secret. I nursed the

old man on his deathbed, and if he had confided his secret to any one

he would have been certain to tell me. But ha impressed upon me the

fact that he had not done so. When he was dead I became seriously ill

in my turn, and the information that led to this man’s taking up the

claim was stolen from me, I feel convinced, while I was in my

delirium. The man is a bully and a liar, and not satisfied with that

record, he has made himself a thief.”

 

“Hush, hush, my man,” said the Commissioner, soothingly. “You must

not talk in that way here. Now be off, both of you, let me hear of no

quarrelling, and tomorrow I will give my decision.”

 

We bowed and left him, each hating the other like poison, as you

may be sure.

 

Next morning a trooper discovered me camped by the Creek, and

conducted me to the Commissioner’s presence. I found him alone, and

when I was ushered in he asked me to sit down.

 

“Mr. Pennethorne,” said he, when the trooper had departed, “I have

sent for you to talk to you about the charge you have brought against

the proprietor of the ‘Wheel of Fortune’ mine on the hillside

yonder. After mature consideration, I’m afraid I cannot further

consider your case. You must see for yourself that you have nothing

at all to substantiate the charge you make beyond your own bald

assertion. If, as you say, you have been swindled, yours is indeed a

stroke of bad luck, for the mine is a magnificent property; but if,

on the other hand—as I must perforce believe, since he was first

upon the field—Bartrand’s statement is a true one, then I can only

think you have acted most unwisely in behaving as you have done. If

you will be guided by me, you will let the matter drop. Personally I

do not see that you can do anything else. Bartrand evidently received

the news before you did, and, as I said just now, in proof of

that we have the fact that he was first on the field. There is no

gainsaying that.”

 

“But I was ill and could not come,” I burst out. “I tell you he

stole from me the information that enabled him to get here at

all.”

 

“Pardon me, I do not know that. And now it only remains for me to

ask you to remember that we can have no disturbance here.”

 

“I will make no disturbance,” I answered. “You need have no fear

of that. If I cannot get possession of my property by fair means I

shall try elsewhere.”

 

“That does not concern me,” he replied. “Only, I think on the

evidence you have at present in your possession you’ll be wasting

your time and your money. By the way, your name is Gilbert

Pennethorne, is it not?”

 

“Yes,” I said, without much interest, “and much good it has ever

done me.”

 

“I ask the question because there’s an advertisement in the

Sydney Morning Herald which seems to be addressed to you. Here

it is!”

 

He took up a paper and pointed to a few lines in the “agony”

column. When he handed it to me I read the following:—

 

“If Gilbert Pennethorne, third son of the late Sir Anthony William

Pennethorne, Bart., of Polton-Penna, in the County of Cornwall,

England, at present believed to be resident in Australia, will apply

at the office of Messrs. Grey and Dawkett, solicitors, Maoquarie

Street, Sydney, he will hear of something to his advantage.”

 

I looked at the paper in a dazed sort of fashion, and then, having

thanked the Commissioner for his kindness, withdrew. In less than two

hours I was on my way to Sydney to interview Messrs. Grey and

Dawkett. On arriving I discovered their office, and when I had

established my identity, learned from them that my father had died

suddenly while out hunting, six months before, and that by his will I

had benefited to the extent of five thousand pounds sterling.

 

Three days later the excitement and bitter disappointment through

which I had lately passed brought on a relapse of my old illness, and

for nearly a fortnight I hovered between life and death in the Sydney

Hospital. When I left that charitable institution it was to learn

that Bartrand was the sole possessor of what was considered the

richest gold mine in the world, and that he, after putting it into

the hands of reliable officers, had left Australia for London.

 

As soon as I was quite strong again I packed up my traps, and,

with the lust of murder in my heart, booked a passage in a P. and 0.

liner, and followed him.

 

CHAPTER I. ENGLAND ONCE MORE.

 

WHEN I reached England, the icy hand of winter was upon the land.

The streets were banked feet high with snow, and the Thames at London

Bridge was nothing but a mass of floating ice upon which an active

man could have passed from shore to shore. Poor homeless wretches

were to be seen sheltering themselves in every nook and cranny, and

the morning papers teemed with gruesome descriptions of dead bodies

found in drifts, of damage done to property, and of trains delayed

and snowed up in every conceivable part of the country. Such a winter

had not been experienced for years, and when I arrived and realised

what it meant for myself, I could not but comment on my madness in

having left an Australian summer to participate in such a direful

state of things.

 

Immediately on arrival I made my way to Blankerton’s Hotel, off

the Strand, and installed myself there. It was a nice, quiet place,

and suited me admirably. The voyage home from Australia had done me a

world of good—that is to say as far as my bodily health was

concerned—but it was doubtful whether it had relieved my brain of

any of the pressure recent events in Australia had placed upon it.

Though nearly three months had elapsed since my terrible

disappointment in the Boolga Ranges, I had not been able to reconcile

myself to it; and as the monotonous existence on board ship allowed

me more leisure, it probably induced me to brood upon it more than I

should otherwise have done. At any rate, my first thought on reaching

London was that I was in the same City with my enemy, and my second

to wonder how I could best get even with him. All day and all night

this idea held possession of my brain. I could think of nothing but

my hatred of the man, and as often as I saw his name mentioned in the

columns of the Press, the more vehement my desire to punish him

became. Looking back on it now it seems to me that I could not

have been quite right in my head at that time, though to all intents

and purposes I was as rational a being as ever stepped in shoe

leather. In proof of what I mean, I can remember, times