The Lust of Hate, Guy Newell Boothby [essential books to read .txt] 📗

compelled to decline it, and under those circumstances I

think it would be best to let the subject drop.

 

“You are too modest by half, Mr. Wrexford,” said Miss Maybourne’s

uncle. “Far too modest.”

 

For some time the two gentlemen did their best to persuade me to

forego my decision, but, hard as they tried, they did not succeed.

There were so many reasons why I should not take up my residence

among the first saloon passengers aft, and as I reviewed them in my

mind, I became more than ever convinced that it would be madness for

me to forego my resolution.

 

When they discovered that I was not to be moved they shook hands

again, and then left me. Five minutes later the doctor came in to

help me dress. He carried a bundle of clothes in his arms, and when

he had shut the door behind him he threw them on the locker under the

porthole.

 

“Your own clothes, I’m sorry to say, Wrexford,” he began, “are

completely spoiled; so if you’ll allow me, I’m going to lend you

these till you can see about some more. We are men of pretty much the

same build, so what fits me should fit you, and vice versa.

Now, if you’re ready, let me give you a hand to dress, for I want to

get you on deck into the fresh air as soon as possible.”

 

Half an hour later I was ready to leave my cabin. The doctor’s

clothes fitted me admirably, and after I had given a look round to

see that I had not left anything behind me, I followed the medico out

into the saloon. Fortunately, there were very few people about, but,

to my horror, those who were there would insist upon shaking hands

with me, and telling me what they thought of my action before they

would let me escape. To add to my discomfort, when I left the saloon

and passed along the spar deck towards my own quarters I had to run

the gauntlet of the rest of the passengers, who clustered round me,

and overwhelmed me with a chorus of congratulations on my recovery. I

doubt very much if ever there was more fuss made over an act of

common humanity than that made by the passengers of the Fiji

Princess over mine. If I had saved the lives of the whole ship’s

company, captain and stokers included, there could not have been more

said about it.

 

Beaching my own quarters forward I went down to my berth, in

search of a pipe and a pouch of tobacco, and when I had found them,

sat myself down on the fore-hatch and began to smoke. It was a lovely

morning, a merry breeze hummed in the shrouds, and the great steamer

was ploughing her way along with an exhilarating motion that brought

my strength back quicker than any doctor’s physic. On the bridge my

old friend the second officer was pacing up and down, and when he saw

me he came to the rail, and waved his hand in welcome.

 

The chief steward also found me out, and embraced the opportunity

for telling me that my conduct reminded him of a cousin’s exploits in

the Hooghly, which said narrative I felt constrained to swallow with

a few grains of salt. When he left me I sat where I was and thought

how pleasant it was, after all, to find that there were still people

in the world with sufficiently generous natures to appreciate a

fellow creature’s actions. One question, however, haunted me

continually: What would the folk aboard this ship say when they knew

my secret? And, above all, what would Miss Agnes Maybourne think when

she should come to hear it?

 

CHAPTER V. THE WRECK OF THE “FIJI PRINCESS”

 

That afternoon I was sitting in my usual place on the fore-hatch,

smoking and thinking about our next port of call, and what a

miserable figure I should cut before the ship’s company if by any

chance I should be arrested there, when I became conscious that

someone had come along the hurricane deck and was leaning on the

rails gazing down at me. I looked up, to discover that it was none

other than Miss Maybourne. Directly she saw that I was aware of her

presence she moved towards the ladder on the port side and came down

it towards where I sat. Her dress was of some dark-blue material,

probably serge, and was cut in such a fashion that it showed her

beautiful figure to the very best advantage. A sweeter picture of an

English maiden of gentle birth than she presented as she came down

the steps it would have been difficult to find. Kindness and

sincerity were the chief characteristics of her face, and I felt a

thrill of pride run through me as I reflected that she owed her life

to me.

 

When she came up to where I stood, for I had risen on seeing her

approaching me, she held out her hand with a frank gesture, and said,

as she looked me in the eyes:

 

“Mr. Wrexford, you saved my life the night before last, and this

is the first opportunity I have had of expressing my gratitude to

you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am, but I ask you to believe

that so long as I live I shall never cease to bless you for your

heroism.”

 

To return an answer to such a speech would not seem a difficult

matter at first thought, and yet I found it harder than I would at

any other time have imagined. To let her see that I did not want to

be thanked, and at the same time not to appear churlish, was a very

difficult matter. However, I stumbled out some sort of a reply, and

then asked her how she had managed to fall overboard in that

extraordinary fashion.

 

“I really cannot tell you,” she answered, without hesitation. “I

was leaning against the rails of the hurricane deck talking to Miss

Dursley and Mr. Spicer, when something behind me gave way, and then

over I went backwards into the water. Oh, you can’t imagine the

feeling of utter helplessness that came over me as I rose to the

surface and saw the great ship steaming away. Then you nobly sprang

in to my assistance, and once more hope came into my heart. But for

you I might now be dead, floating about in the depths of that great

sea. Oh! it is an awful thought.”

 

She trembled like a leaf at the notion, and swept her pretty hands

across her face as if to brush away the thought of such a thing.

 

“It was a very narrow escape,” I said. “I must confess myself that

I thought the boat would never reach us. And yet how cool and

collected you were!”

 

“It would have meant certain death to have been anything else,”

she answered. My father will be indeed grateful to you when he hears

of your bravery. I am his only child, and if anything were to happen

to me I don’t think he would survive the shock.”

 

“I am very grateful to Providence for Laving given me such an

opportunity of averting so terrible a sorrow,” I said. “But I fear,

like everyone else, you attach too much importance to what I did. I

simply acted as any other decent man would have done had he been

placed in a similar position.”

 

“You do not do yourself justice,” she said. “But, at any rate, you

have the satisfaction of knowing, if it is any satisfaction to you,

that Agnes Maybourne owes her life to you, and that she will never

forget the service you have rendered her.”

 

The conversation was growing embarrassing, so I turned it into

another channel as soon as possible. At the same time I wanted to

find out something which had been puzzling me ever since I had first

seen her face, and that was where I had met her before. When I put

the question she looked at me in surprise.

 

“Do you know, Mr. Wrexford,” she said, “that I was going to ask

you that self-same question? And for rather a strange reason. On the

night before we sailed, you must understand, I was sleeping at the

house of an aunt who lives a few miles outside Southampton. I went to

bed at ten o’clock, after a rather exciting day, feeling very tired.

Almost as soon as my head was upon the pillow I fell asleep, and did

not wake again until about half-past twelve o’clock, when I suddenly

found myself wide awake sitting up in bed, with a man’s pale and

agonised face staring at me from the opposite wall. For a few moments

I thought I must be still asleep and dreaming, or else seeing a

phantom. Almost before I could have counted five it faded away, and I

saw no more of it. From that time forward, like yourself, I was

haunted with the desire to remember if I had ever seen the man’s face

before, and, if so, where. You may imagine my surprise, therefore,

when I found the owner of it sitting before me on the hatch of the

very steamer that was to take me to South Africa. Can you account for

it?”

 

“Not in the least,” I answered. “Mine was very much the same sort

of experience, only that I was wide awake and driving down a prosaic

London street when it happened. I, too, was endeavouring to puzzle it

out the other day when I looked up and found you standing on the deck

above me. It seems most uncanny.”

 

“It may have been a warning from Providence to us which we have

not the wit to understand.”

 

“A warning it certainly was,” I said truthfully, but hardly in the

fashion she meant. “And one of the most extraordinary ever vouchsafed

to mortal man.”

 

“A fortunate one for me,” she answered with a smile, and then

offering me her dainty little hand, she bade me “good-bye,” and went

up the steps again to the hurricane deck.

 

From that time forward I saw a good deal of Miss Maybourne; so

much so that we soon found ourselves upon comparatively intimate

terms. Though I believe to others she was inclined to be a little

haughty, to me she was invariably kindness and courtesy itself.

Nothing could have been more pleasant than her manner when we were

together; and you may be very sure, after all that I had lately

passed through, I could properly appreciate her treatment of me. To

be taken out of my miserable state of depression, and, after so many

years of ill fortune, to be treated with consideration and respect,

made me feel towards her as I had never done towards a woman in my

life before. I could have fallen at her feet and kissed her shoes in

gratitude for the luxury of my conversation with her. It was the

luckiest chance for both of us when I went aft that night to see that

photograph in the second officer’s cabin. Had I not been there I

should in all probability never have heard Miss Maybourne’s shriek as

she went over the side, and in that case she would most certainly

have been drowned; for I knew that, unaided and weighed down by her

wet clothes as she was, she could never have kept afloat till the

boat reached her. Strange as it may seem, I could not help deriving a

sort of satisfaction from this thought. It was evident that my

refusal to accept the captain’s kind offer to take possession, for

the rest of the