The First Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK ®. Algernon Blackwood

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes. “Don’t think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.” He paused a moment. “Now go,” he added presently, “and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all of your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don’t break your neck skiing.”

      Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At the door he turned suddenly.

      “I knew there was something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “Would you mind lending me one of your kit bags? It’s too late to get one tonight, and I leave in the morning before the shops are open.”

      “Of course; I’ll send Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have it the moment I get home.”

      “I promise to take great care of it,” said Johnson gratefully, delighted to think that within 30 hours he would be nearing the brilliant sunshine of the high Alps in the winter. the thought of that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.

      He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury, where he occupied the top floor in one of those old, gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty. the floor below his own was vacant and unfurnished, and below that were other lodgers whom he did not know. It was cheerless, and he heartily looked forward to a change. the night was even more cheerless: it was miserable, and few people were around. A cold, sleety rain was driving down the streets before the keenest east wind that he had ever felt. It howled dismally among the big, gloomy houses of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms, he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of black roofs beyond his windows.

      In the hall he met his landlady, shading a candle from the drafts with her thin hand. “This come by a man from Mr. Wilbr’am’s, sir.”

      She pointed to what was evidently the kit bag, and Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. “I shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, Mrs. Monks,” he said. “I’ll leave an address for letters.”

      “And I hope you’ll ‘ave a merry Christmas, sir,” she said in a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits, “and better weather than this.”

      “I hope so too,” replied her lodger, shuddering a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.

      When he got upstairs, he heard the sleet volleying against the windowpanes. He put his kettle on to make a cup of hot coffee and then set about putting a few things in order for his absence.

      “And now I must pack—such as my packing is.” He laughed to himself and set to work at once.

      He liked the packing, for it brought the snow mountains so vividly before him and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature. His friend had lent him the very thing—a stout canvas kit bag, sack-shaped, with holes around the neck for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true, and not much to look at, but its capacity was unlimited, and there was no need to pack carefully. He shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and gloves, his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow boots, and earmuffs; and then on the top of these he piled his woolen shirts and underwear, his thick socks, puttees, and knickerbockers. the dress suit came next, in case the hotel people dressed up for dinner, and then, thinking of the best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a moment to reflect. “That’s the worst of these kit bags,” he mused vaguely, standing in the center of the sitting room, where he had come to fetch some string.

      It was after ten o’clock. A furious gust of wind rattled the windows as though to hurry him up, and he thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would be spent in such a climate, while he was skimming over snowy slopes in bright sunshine and dancing in the evening with rosy-

      cheeked girls—ah! That reminded him; he must put in his dancing pumps and evening socks. He crossed over from his sitting room to the cupboard on the landing where he kept his linen.

      And as he did so, he heard someone coming softly up the stairs.

      He stood still a moment on the landing to listen. It was Mrs. Monks’s step, he thought; she must be coming up with the last mail. But then the steps ceased suddenly, and he heard no more. They were at least two flights down, and he came to the conclusion that they were too heavy to be those of his bibulous landlady. No doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken his floor. He went into his bedroom and packed his pumps and dress shirts as best he could.

      The kit bag by this time was two thirds full and stood upright on its own base like a sack of flour. For the first time he noticed that it was old and dirty, the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a very nice bag to have sent him—certainly not a new one or one that his chief valued. He gave the matter a passing thought and went on with his packing. Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it could have been wandering down below, for Mrs. Monks had not come up with letters, and the floor was empty and unfurnished. From time to time, moreover, he was almost certain that he heard a soft tread of someone padding around over the bare boards—cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible—and, further, that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly closer.

      For the first time in his life he began to feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling, an odd thing happened: as he left the bedroom, having just packed his recalcitrant white shirts, he noticed that the top of the kit bag lopped over toward him with an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. the canvas fell into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the brass rings for the padlock just filled the position of the eyes. A shadow—or was it a travel stain? for he could not tell exactly—looked like hair. It gave him rather a shock, for it was so absurdly, so outrageously, like the face of John Turk, the murderer.

      He laughed and went into the front room, where the light was stronger.

      That horrid case has gotten on my mind, he thought; I shall be glad of a change of scene and air. In the sitting room, however, he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread upon the stairs and to realize that it was much closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this time he got up and went out to see who it could be creeping around on the upper staircase at so late an hour.

      But the sound ceased; there was no one visible on the stairs. He went to the floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric light to make sure that no one was hiding in the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog. Then he called over the banisters to Mrs. Monks, but there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into the dark vault of the house and was lost in the roar of the gale that howled outside. Everyone was in bed and asleep—everyone except himself and the owner of this soft and stealthy tread.

      My absurd imagination, I suppose, he thought. It must have been the wind after all, although—it seemed so very real and close, I thought. He went back to his packing. It was by this time getting on toward midnight. He drank his coffee and lit another pipe—the last before turning in.

      It is difficult to say exactly at what point fear begins, when the causes of that fear are not plainly before the eyes. Impressions gather on the surface of the mind, film by film, as ice gathers on the surface of still water, but often so lightly that they claim no definite recognition from the consciousness. Then a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened. With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he felt nervous—

      oddly nervous; also, that for some time past the causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in his mind, but that he had only just reached the point where he was forced to acknowledge them.

СКАЧАТЬ