A NIGHT IN HELL--AND NEXT DAY
There are few men, Douglas had once read, who have not spent one night
of their lives in hell. When morning came he knew that he at least was
amongst the majority. Sleep had never once touched his eyelids--his
most blessed respite had been a few moments of deadly stupor, when the
red fires had ceased to play before his eyes, and the old man's upturned
face had faded away into the chill mists. Yet when at last he rose he
asked himself, with a sudden passionate eagerness, whether after all it
might not have been a terrible dream. He gazed around eagerly looking
for a latticed window with dimity curtains, a blue papered wall hung
with texts, and a low beamed ceiling. Alas! Before him was a
white-shrouded river, around him a wilderness of houses, and a long row
of faintly-burning lights stretched from where he sat all along the
curving embankment. He was wearing unfamiliar clothes, and a doubled-up
newspaper was in his pockets. It was all true then, the flight across
the moor, the strange ride to town, the wild exhilaration of spirits,
and the dull, crushing blow. The girl with the roses--ah, she had been
with him--had brought him here. He remembered the look in her eyes when
she had refused his money. At least he had ridded himself of that. He
tried to stretch himself. He was stiff and sore all over. His head was
throbbing like a steam engine, and he sank back upon the seat in the
throes of a cold, ghastly sickness. He remembered then that he had not
touched food for hours. He remembered too that he had not a penny in
the world.
For an hour or more he lay there partially unconscious. Physically he
was almost unable to move--his brain, however, was gradually clearing.
After all, perhaps the boldest course was the safest. He would go and
say, "Here am I, Douglas Guest--what do you want with me? It is true
that I took money from the old man, but it was my own. As to his death,
what do I know of that? Who heard me threaten him? Who saw me strike
him? There is no one."
He staggered up to his feet. The morning had come now, and people had
begun to stir. A few market waggons went rumbling by. There were
milk-carts in the streets, and sleepy-looking servants in print dresses
were showing their heads above the area steps. Douglas moved on with
unsteady footsteps. He passed a policeman who looked at him curiously,
and of whom he felt more than half inclined to ask the way to the
nearest police-station, then walked up into the square, where before him
hung a red lamp from a tall, red brick house with barred windows. He
peered in at the window. A fat sergeant was sitting at the table
yawning, the walls were hung with police bills, the room itself was the
quintessence of discomfort. The place repelled him strongly. He did
not like the look of the sergeant nor his possible quarters. After all,
why need he hurry? The day was young, and it was very unlikely that he
would be recognised. He strolled away with his hands in his pockets,
lighter-hearted with every step which took him away from those barred
windows.
Across the square, a fat little man was making strenuous efforts to
remove the shutter from in front of his shop. He looked round as
Douglas appeared, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and
regarded him doubtfully.
"Will yer lend us a hand, guvnor?" he inquired.
Douglas was willing enough, and between them the job was soon finished.
The little man, who was a confectioner, explained that he had an
assistant who came from a distance, and whose laziness was most
phenomenal. After this morning, however, his services would be
dispensed with. For once he had gone a little too far. Eight o'clock
and no sign of him. It was monstrous! The little man produced a few
coppers and glanced towards Douglas with some hesitation.
Douglas laughed softly.
"I don't want any money, thanks," he said, "but if I could beg a piece
of bread or cake, I'm really hungry."
The little man nodded and hastened into the shop. Douglas followed him.
"If you'd care for a cup of milk," he remarked, taking a tin from the
door handle, "we can manage it. No tea yet, I'm afraid."
"I should enjoy the milk very much if you can spare it."
He made a curious meal. A little hysterical, but stronger at every
mouthful. The little man watched him covertly.
"Like a wash?" he inquired.
"Rather," Douglas answered. After all, it was a good start for the day.
He walked out of the shop a quarter of an hour later a new man, spruce
and clean, smoking a cigarette, and with the terrors of the night far
behind him. The cold water had been like a sweet, keen tonic to him.
The cobwebs had gone from his brain. Memory had returned. What a fool
he had been. There was no such person as Douglas Guest. Douglas Guest
was dead. What need for him to fear?
The greatest desire he had now was for a morning newspaper, but though
he tried every pocket several times over he was absolutely penniless.
Then he thought of the Free Libraries--a sudden and delightful
inspiration. A policeman directed him. He entered a handsome building,
and being early had his choice of the great dailies, neatly cut and
arranged upon rollers for him. One by one he read them through with
feverish interest, and when he set them down he laughed softly to
himself. There was not one of them which did not chronicle the death of
Douglas Guest on the Midland Express, and refer to him as the person
wanted for the Feldwick murder. So he was safe, after all. The press
had made it clearer than ever. Douglas Guest was dead. Henceforth he
need have no fear.
He moved to the tables where the reviews and magazines were, and spent a
pleasant hour or two amongst them. He planned out a new story, saw his
way to a satirical article upon a popular novel, thought of an epigram,
and walked out into the street a few minutes before one with something
of the old exhilaration of spirits dancing through his veins. His
condition of absolute poverty had not yet lost the flavour of novelty.
He even laughed as he realised that again he was hungry and must rely
upon chance for a meal. This time there was no fat confectioner to play
the good Samaritan. But by chance he passed a pawnbroker's shop, and
with a little cry of triumph he dragged a fat, yellow-faced silver watch
from his pocket and stepped blithely inside. He found it valued at much
less than he had expected, but he attempted no bargaining. He walked
out again into the street, a man of means. There were silver coins in
his pocket--enough to last him for a couple of days at least. It was
unexpected fortune.
He bought some tobacco and cigarette papers and rolled himself a
cigarette. Then he stepped out in the direction of the Strand, where he
imagined the restaurants mostly lay. He passed St. James's Palace, up
St. James's Street and into Piccadilly. For a while he forgot his
hunger. There was so much that was marvellous, so much to admire.
Burlington House was pointed out by a friendly policeman; he passed into
the courtyard where the pigeons were feeding, and looked around him with
admiration which was tempered almost with awe. On his way out he again
addressed the policeman.
"I want to have some lunch somewhere," he said. "I can only spend about
two shillings, and I want the best I can get for the money. I wonder
whether you could direct me."
The policeman smiled.
"There's only one place for you, sir," he said, "and it's lucky as I can
direct you there. You go to Spargetti's in Old Compton Street, off Soho
Square. I've heard that there's no West-End place to touch it--and they
do you the whole lot for two bob, including a quarter flask of wine.
I've a brother-in-law as keeps the books there, and I have it from him,
sir, that there ain't such value for money in the whole country. And
there's this about it, sir," he added confidentially, "you can eat
what's set before you. It ain't like some of these nasty, low, foreign
eating-'ouses where you daren't touch rabbit, and the soup don't seem
canny. There's plenty like that, but not Spargetti's. You're all right
there, sir."
Douglas went off, fortified with many directions, and laughing heartily.
He found Spargetti's, and seated himself at a tiny table in a long low
room, blue already with cigarette smoke. They brought him such a
luncheon as he had never eaten before. Grated macaroni in his soup,
watercress and oil with his chicken, a curious salad and a wonderful
cheese. Around him was the constant hum of gay conversation. Every one
save himself seemed to have friends here, and many of them. It was
indeed a very ordinary place, a cosmopolitan eating-house, good of its
sort, and with an excellent connection of lighthearted but impecunious
foreigners, who made up with the lightness of their spirits for the
emptiness of their purses. To Douglas, whose whole upbringing and
subsequent life had been amongst the dreariest of surroundings, there
was something about it all peculiarly fascinating. The air of pleasant
abandonment, the subtle aroma of gaiety allied with irresponsibility,
the strange food and wine, well cooked and stimulating, delighted him.
His sole desire now was for a companion. If only those men--artists, he
was sure they were--would draw him into their conversation. He had
plenty to say. He was ready to be as merry as any of them. A faint
sense of loneliness depressed him for a moment as he looked from one to
another of the long tables. All his life he had been as one removed
from his fellows. He was weary of it. Surely it must be nearly at an
end now. Some of the children of the great mother city would hold out
their hands to him. It was not alms he needed. It was a friend.
"Good morning."
Douglas looked up quickly. A newcomer had taken the vacant place at his
table.