The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕

surprise among the passengers. Still, I believe it prejudiced the

majority in my favour. At any rate, I soon discovered that my humble

position forward was to make no sort of difference in their treatment

of me; and many an enjoyable pipe I smoked, and twice as many talks I

had with one and another, sitting on the cable range, or leaning over

the bows watching the vessel’s nose cutting its way through the clear

green water.

One morning, after breakfast, I was forward watching the effect

just mentioned, and, as usual, thinking what my sensations would be

if I should be arrested at Teneriffe, when I heard footsteps behind

me. On looking round I discovered Miss Maybourne and the skipper

coming towards me.

“Good morning, Mr. Wrexford,” said the former, holding out her

hand. “What a constant student of nature you are, to be sure. Every

morning lately I have seen you standing where you are now, looking

across the sea. My curiosity could hold out no longer, so this

morning I asked Captain Hawkins to escort me up here in order that I

might ask you what you see.”

“I’m afraid you will hardly be repaid for your trouble, Miss

Maybourne,” I answered with a smile, as the captain, after shaking

hands with me and wishing me good morning, left us to speak to one of

the officers who had come forward in search of him.

“But surely you must see something—King Neptune, or at least a

mermaid,” she persisted. “You are always watching the water.”

“Perhaps I do see something,” I answered bitterly. “Yes; I

think you are right. When I look over the sea like that I am watching

a man’s wasted life. I see him starting on his race with everything

in his favour that the world can give. I see a school career of

mediocrity, and a university life devoid of any sort of success; I

can see a continuity of profitless wanderings about the world in the

past, and I am beginning to believe that I can make out another just

commencing. Disgrace behind, and disgrace ahead; I think that is the

picture I have before me when I look across the sea, Miss Maybourne.

It is an engrossing, but hardly a pretty one, is it?”

“You are referring to your own life, I suppose?” she said,

quietly. “Well, all I can say is that, from what I have seen of you,

I should consider that you are hardly the man to do yourself

justice.”

“God forbid,” I answered. “If I were to do that it would be

impossible for me to live. No; I endeavour, as far as I am able, to

forget what my past has been.”

She approached a step closer to me, and placed her little white

hand on my arm as it lay on the bulwark before her.

“Mr. Wrexford,” she said, with an earnestness I had not hitherto

noticed in her, “I hope you will not consider me impertinent if I say

that I should like to know your history. Believe me, I do not say

this out of any idle curiosity, but because I hope and believe that

it may be in my power to help you. Remember what a debt of gratitude

I owe you for your bravery the other night. I cannot believe that a

man who would risk his life, as you did then, can be the sort of man

you have just depicted. Do you feel that you can trust me

sufficiently to tell me about yourself?”

“What there is to tell, with certain reservations, of course, you

shall hear. There is no one to whom I would confess so readily as to

yourself. I will not insult you by asking you to let what I tell you

remain a, secret between us, but I will ask you to try not to judge

me too harshly.”

“You may be sure I shall not do that,” she replied; and then

realising what her words implied, she hung her head with a pretty

show of confusion. I saw what was passing in her mind, and to help

her out of her difficulty plunged into the story of my miserable

career. I told her of my old home in Cornwall, of my mother’s death,

and my father’s antipathy to me on that account. On my Eton and

Oxford life I dwelt but lightly, winding up with the reason of my

being “sent down,” and the troubles at home that followed close upon

it. I described my bush life in Australia, and told her of the great

disappointment to which I had been subjected over the gold mine,

suppressing Bartrand’s name, and saying nothing of the hatred I had

entertained for him.

“After that,” I said in conclusion, “I decided that I was tired of

Australia, and, having inherited a little money from my father, came

home, intending to get something to do and settle down in London. But

I very soon tired of England, as I tired of every other place j and

hence my reason for going out to seek my fortune in South Africa. Now

I think I have given you a pretty good idea of my past. It’s not an

edifying history, is it? It seems to me a parson might moralise very

satisfactorily upon it.”

“It is very, very sad,” she answered. “Oh, Mr. Wrexford, how

bitterly you must regret your wasted opportunities.”

“Regret!” I said. “The saddest word in the English language. Yes,

I think I do regret.”

“You only ‘think?’ Are you not sure? From your tale one would

suppose you were very sorry.”

“Yes, I think I regret. But how can I be certain? The

probabilities are that if I had my chance over again I should

do exactly the same. As Gordon, the Australian poet, sings:—

“‘For good undone, and gifts misspent and resolutions vain,

‘Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know—I should live the

same life, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go

where most men go.’

“It’s not a pretty thought, perhaps, to think that one’s bad

actions are the outcome of a bad nature, but one is compelled to own

that it is true.”

“You mustn’t talk like that, Mr. Wrexford,” she cried; “indeed,

you mustn’t. In all probability you have a long life before you; and

who knows what the future may have in store for you? All this trouble

that you have suffered may be but to fit you for some great success

in after life.”

“There can never be any success for me, Miss Maybourne,” I said,

more bitterly than I believe I had spoken yet. “There is no chance at

all of that. Success and I parted company long since, and can never

be reconciled to each other again. To the end of my days I shall be a

lonely, homeless man, without ambition, without hope, and without

faith in any single thing. God knows I am paying dearly for all I

have done and all that I have failed to do.”

“But there is still time for you to retrieve everything. Surely

that must be the happiest thought in this frail world of ours. God,

in His mercy, gives us a chance to atone for whatever we have done

amiss. Believe me, I can quite realize what you feel about yourself.

But at the same time, from what I have seen of you, I expect you make

more of it than it really deserves.”

“No, no; I can never paint what I have done in black enough

colours. I am a man eternally disgraced. You try to comfort me in

your infinite compassion, but you can never take away from me, try

how you will, the awful skeleton that keeps me company night and

day—I mean the recollection of the past.”

She looked at me with tears of compassion in her lovely eyes. I

glanced at her face and then turned away and stared across the sea.

Never in my life before had hope seemed so dead in my heart. Now, for

the first time, I realized in all its naked horror the effect of the

dastardly deed I had committed. Henceforward I was a social leper,

condemned to walk the world, crying, “Unclean! unclean!”

“I am so sorry—so very sorry for you,” Miss Maybourne said, after

the little pause that followed my last speech. “You cannot guess how

much your story has affected me. It is so very terrible to see a man

so richly endowed as yourself cast down with such despair. You

must fight against it, Mr. Wrexford. It cannot be as bad as

you think.”

“I am afraid I am past all fighting now, Miss Maybourne,” I

answered. “But I will try, if you bid me do so.”

As I spoke I looked at her again. This time her eyes met mine

fearlessly, but as they did so a faint blush suffused her face.

“I bid you try,” she said very softly. “God give you grace, and

grant you may succeed.”

“If anything can make me succeed,” I replied, “it will be your

good wishes. I will do my best, and man cannot do more. You have

cheered me up wonderfully, and I thank you from the bottom of my

heart.”

“You must not do that. I hope now I shall not see you looking any

more across the sea in the same way that you were this morning. You

are to cheer up, and I shall insist that you report progress to me

every day. If I discover any relapse, remember, I shall not spare

you, and my anger will be terrible. Now good-bye; I see my uncle

signalling to me from the hurricane deck. It is time for me to read

to him.”

“Good-bye,” I said, “and may God bless you for your kindness to

one who really stood in want of it.”

After that conversation I set myself to take a more hopeful view

of my situation. I told myself that, provided I managed to reach my

destination undetected, I would work as never man ever worked before

to make an honourable place for myself among those with whom my lot

should be cast. The whole of the remainder of my life I vowed, God

helping me, should be devoted to the service of my fellow creatures,

and then on the strength of their respect and esteem I would be able

to face whatever punishment Providence should decree as the result of

my sin. In the strength of this firm resolve I found myself becoming

a happier man than I had been for years past.

By this time we had left Madeira behind us, and were fast

approaching Teneriffe. In another day and a half, at the longest

calculation, I should know my fate.

That night I had been smoking for some time on the fo’c’sle, but

after supper, feeling tired, had gone to my bunk at an earlier hour

than usual. For some reason my dreams were the reverse of good, and

more than once I woke in a fright, imagining myself in danger. To

such a state of nervousness did this fright at last bring me that,

unable to sleep any longer, I got out of bed and dressed myself. When

I was fully attired I sought the deck, to discover a fine starlight

night with a nice breeze blowing. I made my way to my usual spot

forward, and, leaning on the bulwark, looked down at the sea. We were

now in the region of phosphorescent water, and the liquid round the

boat’s cutwater sparkled and glimmered as if decked