Shiel The Evil That Men Do

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-83-8162-796-2
Verlag: Ktoczyta.pl
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 393 Seiten

'The Evil That Men Do' is a classic story of horror and unbelievable cruelty by British writer Matthew Phipps Shiel. This novel of mystery about Hartwell from birth, does he inherit his fathers traits? Do great men have great sons and how much does one's own life's experiences cause variance to this question? To the ordinary reader there will seem very little in point of morality to choose between Robert Hartwell and the villainous millionaire whom a strange facial resemblance enables him to impersonate. Mr. Shiel does not, and probably does not aspire to, draw pictures of everyday life as it is. But there is always something ingenious in his situations, and in this book, at any rate, he has contrived to avoid the developments which disfigured at least one of his earlier novels.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Shiel, M. P.

Leseproben

II. ON THE ROAD It was on the road between Cromer and Norwich–a good road, as many cyclists know, but with some steep bits, especially toward Cromer end, and there between Horsham, St. Fay’s and Aylsham. It is late autumn, and all those woods of Stratton, Strawless, and Blickling, are whirls of dead leaves. The sun is setting–bleakly setting; and the storm winds sweeping south wrinkle the puddles in the road, along which one may walk miles and not meet a soul. Certainly, the country has a desolate aspect this evening; the ground, turned since harvest for the first wheat sowing, looks black and dead with wet. Hardly a tuft of chrysanthemum in some sheltered nook still braves the bleakness of wintry winds. The ferns, and heather of Roughton Heath look scorched by the breath of a fire. The wind seems to have a grey colour. Go still further north along the road, and you will find all that breadth of sand, where the village girls “paddle” through the summer and catch sea anemones, swallowed up now by the sea. It is blowing great guns inland, and the flat-bottomed crab boats are perched in nooks of the cliffs beyond the range of the breakers. Beyond Roughton and Aylsham, a motor car comes scorching at a speed of not less than thirty miles an hour; for the wind blows keen and, moreover, the driver of this particular twin cylinder is famous for his illegal pace. His car is a specially “chic” turn-out, an elongated mass of double phaeton type, brown-painted, upholstered in green leather, with French Dunlops, and lightly pitches forward all that weight over the slushy road a purring Juggernaut–toward Norwich, toward London. On the front seat are two men, thick as bears in a rug, gloves, and furred coats. Only their noses are cold, but even that little they resent: they do not know that within two hours they will be cold all over. “Dimmed cold,” says one. “Hang the silly storm,” says the other. They are the financier, James Drayton, and his right-hand man, McCalmont. They have motored together from London to Sheffield to attend a conference on the pooling of some steel concern, but when the conference was over, instead of returning direct to London, Drayton has said to McCalmont’s surprise, that he wished to see someone at Cromer, and at Cromer they have accordingly arrived about four that afternoon. But whom it could have been that Drayton wished to see at Cromer, McCalmont, even now, cannot guess. Drayton apparently had “seen” no one at Cromer. He did separate a few minutes from McCalmont, but only to go into the poste restante, where he got a letter, which, after reading, he tore up. Why, therefore, they have made this detour to the east of England, McCalmont is still wondering. Drayton must have had some reason. In silence they pitch and slip ahead. Steadily hums the car, the rough wind instruments make music of dead marches about them, the sun has set and darkness gathers fast. James Drayton is a big man, with a handsome, large face, florid and freckled, a black beard, and rather thick lips, whose pressure is visible at the parting of the moustache. He, too, would do very well for Charlemagne or a sea-king, as we said of Captain Denner, of the Africa, whose image he is. His eyes have a hard, aggressive look, and his appearance somehow tells you that he is a modern city man to the finger tips, who knows the world familiarly, uses it, and perhaps abuses it. They are now at the elevated ground about Ingworth, whence they can see the darkling valley of the Bure on either hand, and black before them the woods of Blickling. It is a place where many a spill has taken place on account of two nasty turnings where the road crosses bridges, but Drayton proves that he knows the locality by altering his change-speed gear. The car hastens slower, and neatly negotiates the ticklish bits. At the second turning it splashes a man on the road. He is a tramp–at least, he is tramping. A little bundle in a red handkerchief hangs from a stick over his Shoulder. He has no jacket this inclement night; his boots are ruined; misery is in his eyes, bitterness in his pressed lips. His name is Robert Hartwell. And because of the slowing-down of the motor, and because some greyness still lingers in the dark, therefore Hartwell sees for a moment that face of Drayton, though Drayton and McCalmont do not observe Hartwell. And Hartwell thinks to himself, “Well, that man might be my brother!–ah, but you seem to be happier than I, my friend!” The motor vanishes down the hill towards Blickling, the lessening voice of its flight still haunting Hartwell’s ear drum like a wasp–till that, too, is gone. And on he tramps, muttering bitter at heart, in the same direction as they–towards Norwich, towards London, and the tortoise shall yet beat the hare. Past the mill, past the farm among the trees, the bridge, the old gabled manor-house, hedges loaded with the storm, heron, crop and grebe by the solitary pool, with bat and white owl in the air, the strange screams of madness in the winds that now fill a darkness unrelieved by moon or star–Hartwell continually puts his feet into puddles without seeing them and sounds come from his chest! Meanwhile, the motor has not gone far upon the main road, for soon after crossing the Bure, it has turned aside into rather obscure country tending to bracken and heath, Drayton having said to McCalmont: “There ought to be a place just in there somewhere, which I remember from long ago. Suppose we go and get a glass of ale, and light up.” McCalmont is surprised, for there is champagne on board, if Drayton is thirsty, and it is surely not necessary to go to a tavern to “light up!” but he say, “As you like,” and soon Drayton takes a lane to the left. A mile in this direction, and they come, to a house behind the shoulder of a hill–a rather high house, black with age, with a physiognomy both picturesque and sinister. The roofs are quaint, on different levels, some quite small; there are broken external steps; some of the windows are broader than long, latticed, small or irregularly placed, and two are dormer windows. Along the front runs a gut with some water trickling among rocks, and beyond this a hillside of rocks, pines, and a couple of old huts. Some special dismalness here causes McCalmont to shiver at the cold, as they draw up. “What place is it?” he asks. “I think it is called ‘The Anchor,’” says Drayton. Some rain begins to be mixed with the wind as they go into a bar parlour, with a floor of earth stamped hard, and sanded. The light is dim, but a turf fire burns brightly in the grate. Only one man is there, a laborer, with his tankard on the bench beside him; and from his happy posture one may conjecture him not sober. He is the driver of a manure cart whose horse is enduring all the storm yonder at the house side. He has still a long way to fare, past Aylsham, almost on to Marsham, and the entrance of the rich men rouses him. He pulls himself together, braves the outer night, mounts and sets off, not uncomforted, for he has a can of beer with him. We shall overtake him, again be overtaken by him, and again overtake him. Meanwhile, the landlord has drawn some cider for Drayton. Cider is not McCalmont’s taste, but Drayton duly sips his cider. “By the way, landlord,” says he presently, “just take me to a room: I want to write a letter.” McCalmont is really surprised now. Why on earth–But Drayton knows what he is about: he knows that Letty, the landlord’s daughter, is listening behind the inner door, hears what he says, and will act accordingly. Barnes, the landlord, has never before seen Drayton, nor Drayton Barnes; but Letty and Drayton have met this summer on Cromer pier. Drayton says to his friend: “Shan’t be long,” and Barnes says to Drayton: “This way, sir.” Barnes is a powerful man with a red beard, and a constant frown. He has a certain air of self-importance above his station, as of “one who has come down.” He and Drayton mount some creaking stairs; some paper and two candles are placed on a table in a dingy old-timbered room, then Barnes retires. Drayton, however, writes no letter, but waits, and in a minute Letty looks in. She is twenty or so, middle-sized, fair, plump, and pretty–not the prettiness of a doll–there is character in her face. She is neatly dressed in grey and has quite the air and speech of a lady, save for a countrified word here or there. Her hair is firmly built, she has some jewellery, watch and chain, and smells of lavender, as Drayton puts a kiss on her cheek. “We mustn’t talk here,” she whispers, “come–” She leads him by the hand through darkness down a back stair into the open. Nothing is said till they are beyond the kitchen garden, the stable, the fowl house, the pigs. Then there is a hedge with a gate, then a plank bridging a rill, then a fir plantation. Among the firs they stand. Rain smites their faces, winds catch away their words. Now, too, there is a vague sound of thunder somewhere, but they heed none of these things. Each is fully occupied by the other. “We have only a few minutes,” says Letty Barnes. “What’s it all about, my girl?” answers Drayton. “I got your letter at the Cromer poste restante, but you are cool to expect a man like me to be running after you.” “Oh, you drop all pretence of love, then, I see?” says Letty. Drayton puts his arm...