The Ivory Child
by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #2841 · 619,262 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Ivory Child
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Ivory Child
Author: H. Rider Haggard
Release date: March 31, 2006 [eBook #2841]
Most recently updated: March 10, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2841
Credits: John Bickers; Emma Dudding; Dagny; David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IVORY CHILD ***
The Ivory Child
by H. Rider Haggard
Contents
CHAPTER I. ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON
CHAPTER II. ALLAN MAKES A BET
CHAPTER III. MISS HOLMES
CHAPTER IV. HARÛT AND MARÛT
CHAPTER V. THE PLOT
CHAPTER VI. THE BONA FIDE GOLD MINE
CHAPTER VII. LORD RAGNALL’S STORY
CHAPTER VIII. THE START
CHAPTER IX. THE MEETING IN THE DESERT
CHAPTER X. CHARGE!
CHAPTER XI. ALLAN IS CAPTURED
CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST CURSE
CHAPTER XIII. JANA
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHASE
CHAPTER XV. THE DWELLER IN THE CAVE
CHAPTER XVI. HANS STEALS THE KEYS
CHAPTER XVII. THE SANCTUARY AND THE OATH
CHAPTER XVIII. THE EMBASSY
CHAPTER XIX. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MISSES
CHAPTER XX. ALLAN WEEPS
CHAPTER XXI. HOMEWARDS
CHAPTER I.
ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON
Now I, Allan Quatermain, come to the story of what was, perhaps, one of
the strangest of all the adventures which have befallen me in the
course of a life that so far can scarcely be called tame or humdrum.
Amongst many other things it tells of the war against the Black Kendah
people and the death of Jana, their elephant god. Often since then I
have wondered if this creature was or was not anything more than a mere
gigantic beast of the forest. It seems improbable, even impossible, but
the reader of future days may judge of this matter for himself.
Also he can form his opinion as to the religion of the White Kendah and
their pretensions to a certain degree of magical skill. Of this magic I
will make only one remark: If it existed at all, it was by no means
infallible. To take a single instance, Harût and Marût were convinced
by divination that I, and I only, could kill Jana, which was why they
invited me to Kendahland. Yet in the end it was Hans who killed him.
Jana nearly killed me!
Now to my tale.
In another history, called “The Holy Flower,” I have told how I came to
England with a young gentleman of the name of Scroope, partly to see
him safely home after a hunting accident, and partly to try to dispose
of a unique orchid for a friend of mine called Brother John by the
white people, and Dogeetah by the natives, who was popularly supposed
to be mad, but, in fact, was very sane indeed. So sane was he that he
pursued what seemed to be an absolutely desperate quest for over twenty
years, until, with some humble assistance on my part, he brought it to
a curiously successful issue. But all this tale is told in “The Holy
Flower,” and I only allude to it here, that is at present, to explain
how I came to be in England.
While in this country I stayed for a few days with Scroope, or, rather,
with his fiancée and her people, at a fine house in Essex. (I called it
Essex to avoid the place being identified, but really it was one of the
neighbouring counties.) During my visit I was taken to see a much finer
place, a splendid old castle with brick gateway towers, that had been
wonderfully well restored and turned into a most luxurious modern
dwelling. Let us call it “Ragnall,” the seat of a baron of that name.
I had heard a good deal about Lord Ragnall, who, according to all
accounts, seemed a kind of Admirable Crichton. He was said to be
wonderfully handsome, a great scholar—he had taken a double first at
college; a great athlete—he had been captain of the Oxford boat at the
University race; a very promising speaker who had already made his mark
in the House of Lords; a sportsman who had shot tigers and other large
game in India; a poet who had published a successful volume of verse
under a pseudonym; a good solider until he left the Service; and
lastly, a man of enormous wealth, owning, in addition to his estates,
several coal mines and an entire town in the north of England.
“Dear me!” I said when the list was finished, “he seems to have been
born with a whole case of gold spoons in his mouth. I hope one of them
will not choke him,” adding: “Perhaps he will be unlucky in love.”
“That’s just where he is most lucky of all,” answered the young lady to
whom I was talking—it was Scroope’s fiancée, Miss Manners—“for he is
engaged to a lady that, I am told, is the loveliest, sweetest,
cleverest girl in all England, and they absolutely adore each other.”
“Dear me!” I repeated. “I wonder what Fate _has_ got up its sleeve for
Lord Ragnall and his perfect lady-love?”
I was doomed to find out one day.
So it came about that when, on the following morning, I was asked if I
would like to see the wonders of Ragnall Castle, I answered “Yes.”
Really, however, I wanted to have a look at Lord Ragnall himself, if
possible, for the account of his many perfections had impressed the
imagination of a poor colonist like myself, who had never found an
opportunity of setting his eyes upon a kind of human angel. Human
devils I had met in plenty, but never a single angel—at least, of the
male sex. Also there was always the possibility that I might get a
glimpse of the still more angelic lady to whom he was engaged, whose
name, I understood, was the Hon. Miss Holmes. So I said that nothing
would please me more than to see this castle.
Thither we drove accordingly through the fine, frosty air, for the
month was December. On reaching the castle, Mr. Scroope was told that
Lord Ragnall, whom he knew well, was out shooting somewhere in the
park, but that, of course, he could show his friend over the place. So
we went in, the three of us, for Miss Manners, to whom Scroope was to
be married very shortly, had driven us over in her pony carriage. The
porter at the gateway towers took us to the main door of the castle and
handed us over to another man, whom he addressed as Mr. Savage,
whispering to me that he was his lordship’s personal attendant.
I remember the name, because it seemed to me that I had never seen
anyone who looked much less savage. In truth, his appearance was that
of a duke in disguise, as I imagine dukes to be, for I never set eyes
on one. His dress—he wore a black morning cut-away coat—was faultless.
His manners were exquisite, polite to the verge of irony, but with a
hint of haughty pride in the background. He was handsome also, with a
fine nose and a hawk-like eye, while a touch of baldness added to the
general effect. His age may have been anything between thirty-five and
forty, and the way he deprived me of my hat and stick, to which I
strove to cling, showed, I thought, resolution of character. Probably,
I reflected to myself, he considers me an unusual sort of person who
might damage the pictures and other objects of art with the stick, and
not seeing his way how to ask me to give it up without suggesting
suspicion, has hit upon the expedient of taking my hat also.
In after days Mr. Samuel Savage informed me that I was quite right in
this surmise. He said he thought that, judging from my somewhat
unconventional appearance, I might be one of the dangerous class of
whom he had been reading in the papers, namely, a “hanarchist.” I write
the word as he pronounced it, for here comes the curious thing. This
man, so flawless, so well instructed in some respects, had a fault
which gave everything away. His h’s were uncertain. Three of them would
come quite right, but the fourth, let us say, would be conspicuous
either by its utter absence or by its unwanted appearance. He could
speak, when describing the Ragnall pictures, in rotund and flowing
periods that would scarcely have disgraced the pen of Gibbon. Then
suddenly that “h” would appear or disappear, and the illusion was over.
It was like a sudden shock of cold water down the back. I never
discovered the origin of his family; it was a matter of which he did
not speak, perhaps because he was vague about it himself; but if an
earl of Norman blood had married a handsome Cockney kitchenmaid of
native ability, I can quite imagine that Samuel Savage might have been
a child of the union. For the rest he was a good man and a faithful
one, for whom I have a high respect.
On this occasion he conducted us round the castle, or, rather, its more
public rooms, showing us many treasures and, I should think, at least
two hundred pictures by eminent and departed artists, which gave him an
opportunity of exhibiting a peculiar, if somewhat erratic, knowledge of
history. To tell the truth, I began to wish that it were a little less
full in detail, since on a December day those large apartments felt
uncommonly cold. Scroope and Miss Manners seemed to keep warm, perhaps
with the inward fires of mutual admiration, but as I had no one to
admire except Mr. Savage, a temperature of about 35 degrees produced
its natural effect upon me.
At length we took a short cut from the large to the little gallery
through a warmed and comfortable room, which I understood was Lord
Ragnall’s study. Halting for a moment by one of the fires, I observed a
picture on the wall, over which a curtain was drawn, and asked Mr.
Savage what it might be.
“That, sir,” he replied with a kind of haughty reserve, “is the
portrait of her future ladyship, which his lordship keeps for his
private heye.”
Miss Manners sniggered, and I said:
“Oh, thank you. What an ill-omened kind of thing to do!”
Then, observing through an open door the hall in which my hat had been
taken from me, I lingered and as the others vanished in the little
gallery, slipped into it, recovered my belongings, and passed out to
the garden, purposing to walk there till I was warm again and Scroope
reappeared. While I marched up and down a terrace, on which, I
remember, several very cold-looking peacocks were seated, like
conscientious birds that knew it was their duty to be ornamental,
however low the temperature, I heard some shots fired, apparently in a
clump of ilex oaks which grew about five hundred yards away, and
reflected to myself that they seemed to be those of a small rifle, not
of a shotgun.
My curiosity being excited as to what was to be an almost professional
matter, I walked towards the grove, making a circuit through a
shrubbery. At length I found myself near to the edge of a glade, and
perceived, standing behind the shelter of a magnificent ilex, two men.
One of these was a young keeper, and the other, from his appearance, I
felt sure must be Lord Ragnall himself. Certainly he was a
splendid-looking man, very tall, very broad, very handsome, with a
peaked beard, a kind and charming face, and large dark eyes. He wore a
cloak upon his shoulders, which was thrown back from over a velvet
coat, and, except for the light double-barrelled rifle in his hand,
looked exactly like a picture by Van Dyck which Mr. Savage had just
informed me was that of one of his lordship’s ancestors of the time of
Charles I.
Standing behind another oak, I observed that he was trying to shoot
wood-pigeons as they descended to feed upon the acorns, for which the
hard weather had made them greedy. From time to time these beautiful
blue birds appeared and hovered a moment before they settled, whereon
the sportsman fired and—they flew away. _Bang! Bang!_ went the
double-barrelled rifle, and off fled the pigeon.
“Damn!” said the sportsman in a pleasant, laughing voice; “that’s the
twelfth I have missed, Charles.”
“You hit his tail, my lord. I saw a feather come out. But, my lord, as
I told you, there ain’t no man living what can kill pigeons on the wing
with a bullet, even when they seem to sit still in the air.”
“I have heard of one, Charles. Mr. Scroope has a friend from Africa
staying with him who, he swears, could knock over four out of six.”
“Then, my lord, Mr. Scroope has a friend what lies,” replied Charles as
he handed him the second rifle.
This was too much for me. I stepped forward, raising my hat politely,
and said:
“Sir, forgive me for interrupting you, but you are not shooting at
those wood-pigeons in the right way. Although they seem to hover just
before they settle, they are dropping much faster than you think. Your
keeper was mistaken when he said that you knocked a feather out of the
tail of that last bird at which you fired two barrels. In both cases
you shot at least a foot above it, and what fell was a leaf from the
ilex tree.”
There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Charles, who
ejaculated in a thick voice:
“Well, of all the cheek!”
Lord Ragnall, however, for it was he, looked first angry and then
amused.
“Sir,” he said, “I thank you for your advice, which no doubt is
excellent, for it is certainly true that I have missed every pigeon
which I tried to shoot with these confounded little rifles. But if you
could demonstrate in practice what you so kindly set out in precept,
the value of your counsel would be enhanced.”
Thus he spoke, mimicking, I have no doubt (for he had a sense of
humour), the manner of my address, which nervousness had made somewhat
pompous.
“Give me the rifle,” I answered, taking off my greatcoat.
He handed it me with a bow.
“Mind what you are about,” growled Charles. “That there thing is full
cocked and ‘air-triggered.”
I withered, or, rather, tried to wither him with a glance, but this
unbelieving keeper only stared back at me with insolence in his round
and bird-like eyes. Never before had I felt quite so angry with a
menial. Then a horrible doubt struck me. Supposing I should miss! I
knew very little of the manner of flight of English wood-pigeons, which
are not difficult to miss with a bullet, and nothing at all of these
particular rifles, though a glance at them showed me that they were
exquisite weapons of their sort and by a great maker. If I muffed the
thing now, how should I bear the scorn of Charles and the polite
amusement of his noble master? Almost I prayed that no more pigeons
would put in an appearance, and thus that the issue of my supposed
skill might be left in doubt.
But this was not to be. These birds came from far in ones or twos to
search for their favourite food, and the fact that others had been
scared away did not cause them to cease from coming. Presently I heard
Charles mutter:
“Now, then, look out, guv’nor. Here’s your chance of teaching his
lordship how to do it, though he does happen to be the best shot in
these counties.”
While he spoke two pigeons appeared, one a little behind the other,
coming down very straight. As they reached the opening in the ilex
grove they hovered, preparing to alight, for of us they could see
nothing, one at a distance of about fifty and the other of, say,
seventy yards away. I took the nearest, got on to it, allowing for the
drop and the angle, and touched the trigger of the rifle, which fell to
my shoulder very sweetly. The bullet struck that pigeon on the crop,
out of which fell a shower of acorns that it had been eating, as it
sank to the ground stone dead. Number two pigeon, realizing danger,
began to mount upwards almost straight. I fired the second barrel, and
by good luck shot its head off. Then I snatched the other rifle, which
Charles had been loading automatically, from his outstretched hand, for
at that moment I saw two more pigeons coming. At the first I risked a
difficult shot and hit it far back, knocking out its tail, but bringing
it, still fluttering, to the ground. The other, too, I covered, but
when I touched the trigger there was a click, no more.
This was my opportunity of coming even with Charles, and I availed
myself of it.
“Young man,” I said, while he gaped at me open-mouthed, “you should
learn to be careful with rifles, which are dangerous weapons. If you
give one to a shooter that is not loaded, it shows that you are capable
of anything.”
Then I turned, and addressing Lord Ragnall, added:
“I must apologize for that third shot of mine, which was infamous, for
I committed a similar fault to that against which I warned you, sir,
and did not fire far enough ahead. However, it may serve to show your
attendant the difference between the tail of a pigeon and an oak leaf,”
and I pointed to one of the feathers of the poor bird, which was still
drifting to the ground.
“Well, if this here snipe of a chap ain’t the devil in boots!”
exclaimed Charles to himself.
But his master cut him short with a look, then lifted his hat to me and
said:
“Sir, the practice much surpasses the precept, which is unusual. I
congratulate you upon a skill that almost partakes of the marvellous,
unless, indeed, chance——” And he stopped.
“It is natural that you should think so,” I replied; “but if more
pigeons come, and Mr. Charles will make sure that he loads the rifle, I
hope to undeceive you.”
At this moment, however, a loud shout from Scroope, who was looking for
me, reinforced by a shrill cry uttered by Miss Manners, banished every
pigeon within half a mile, a fact of which I was not sorry, since who
knows whether I should have hit all, or any, of the next three birds?
“I think my friends are calling me, so I will bid you good morning,” I
said awkwardly.
“One moment, sir,” he exclaimed. “Might I first ask you your name? Mine
is Ragnall—Lord Ragnall.”
“And mine is Allan Quatermain,” I said.
“Oh!” he answered, “that explains matters. Charles, this is Mr.
Scroope’s friend, the gentleman that you said—exaggerated. I think you
had better apologize.”
But Charles was gone, to pick up the pigeons, I suppose.
At this moment Scroope and the young lady appeared, having heard our
voices, and a general explanation ensued.
“Mr. Quatermain has been giving me a lesson in shooting pigeons on the
wing with a small-bore rifle,” said Lord Ragnall, pointing to the dead
birds that still lay upon the ground.
“He is competent to do that,” said Scroope.
“Painfully competent,” replied his lordship. “If you don’t believe me,
ask the under-keeper.”
“It is the only thing I can do,” I explained modestly. “Rifle-shooting
is my trade, and I have made a habit of practising at birds on the wing
with ball. I have no doubt that with a shot-gun your lordship would
leave me nowhere, for that is a game at which I have had little
practice, except when shooting for the pot in Africa.”
“Yes,” interrupted Scroope, “you wouldn’t have any chance at that,
Allan, against one of the finest shots in England.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Lord Ragnall, laughing pleasantly. “I have an
idea that Mr. Quatermain is full of surprises. However, with his leave,
we’ll see. If you have a day to spare, Mr. Quatermain, we are going to
shoot through the home coverts to-morrow, which haven’t been touched
till now, and I hope you will join us.”
“It is most kind of you, but that is impossible,” I answered with
firmness. “I have no gun here.”
“Oh, never mind that, Mr. Quatermain. I have a pair of
breech-loaders”—these were new things at that date—“which have been
sent down to me to try. I am going to return them, because they are
much too short in the stock for me. I think they would just suit you,
and you are quite welcome to the use of them.”
Again I excused myself, guessing that the discomfited Charles would put
all sorts of stories about concerning me, and not wishing to look
foolish before a party of grand strangers, no doubt chosen for their
skill at this particular form of sport.
“Well, Allan,” exclaimed Scroope, who always had a talent for saying
the wrong thing, “you are quite right not to go into a competition with
Lord Ragnall over high pheasants.”
I flushed, for there was some truth in his blundering remark, whereon
Lord Ragnall said with ready tact:
“I asked Mr. Quatermain to shoot, not to a shooting match, Scroope, and
I hope he’ll come.”
This left me no option, and with a sinking heart I had to accept.
“Sorry I can’t ask you too, Scroope,” said his lordship, when details
had been arranged, “but we can only manage seven guns at this shoot.
But will you and Miss Manners come to dine and sleep to-morrow evening?
I should like to introduce your future wife to my future wife,” he
added, colouring a little.
Miss Manners being devoured with curiosity as to the wonderful Miss
Holmes, of whom she had heard so much but never actually seen, accepted
at once, before her lover could get out a word, whereon Scroope
volunteered to bring me over in the morning and load for me. Being
possessed by a terror that I should be handed over to the care of the
unsympathetic Charles, I replied that I should be very grateful, and so
the thing was settled.
On our way home we passed through a country town, of which I forget the
name, and the sight of a gunsmith’s shop there reminded me that I had
no cartridges. So I stopped to order some, as, fortunately, Lord
Ragnall had mentioned that the guns he was going to lend me were
twelve-bores. The tradesman asked me how many cartridges I wanted, and
when I replied “a hundred,” stared at me and said:
“If, as I understood, sir, you are going to the big winter shoot at
Ragnall to-morrow, you had better make it three hundred and fifty at
least. I shall be there to watch, like lots of others, and I expect to
see nearly two hundred fired by each gun at the last Lake stand.”
“Very well,” I answered, fearing to show more ignorance by further
discussion. “I will call for the cartridges on my way to-morrow
morning. Please load them with three drachms of powder.”
“Yes, sir, and an ounce and an eighth of No. 5 shot, sir? That’s what
all the gentlemen use.”
“No,” I answered, “No. 3; please be sure as to that. Good evening.”
The gunsmith stared at me, and as I left the shop I heard him remark to
his assistant:
“That African gent must think he’s going out to shoot ostriches with
buck shot. I expect he ain’t no good, whatever they may say about him.”
CHAPTER II.
ALLAN MAKES A BET
On the following morning Scroope and I arrived at Castle Ragnall at or
about a quarter to ten. On our way we stopped to pick up my three
hundred and fifty cartridges. I had to pay something over three solid
sovereigns for them, as in those days such things were dear, which
showed me that I was not going to get my lesson in English pheasant
shooting for nothing. The gunsmith, however, to whom Scroope gave a
lift in his cart to the castle, impressed upon me that they were dirt
cheap, since he and his assistant had sat up most of the night loading
them with my special No. 3 shot.
As I climbed out of the vehicle a splendid-looking and portly person,
arrayed in a velvet coat and a scarlet waistcoat, approached with the
air of an emperor, followed by an individual in whom I recognized
Charles, carrying a gun under each arm.
“That’s the head-keeper,” whispered Scroope; “mind you treat him
respectfully.”
Much alarmed, I took off my hat and waited.
“Do I speak to Mr. Allan Quatermain?” said his majesty in a deep and
rumbling voice, surveying me the while with a cold and disapproving
eye.
I intimated that he did.
“Then, sir,” he went on, pausing a little at the “sir,” as though he
suspected me of being no more than an African colleague of his own, “I
have been ordered by his lordship to bring you these guns, and I hope,
sir, that you will be careful of them, as they are here on sale or
return. Charles, explain the working of them there guns to this foreign
gentleman, and in doing so keep the muzzles up _or_ down. They ain’t
loaded, it’s true, but the example is always useful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Keeper,” I replied, growing somewhat nettled, “but I
think that I am already acquainted with most that there is to learn
about guns.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said his majesty with evident disbelief.
“Charles, I understand that Squire Scroope is going to load for the
gentleman, which I hope he knows how to do with safety. His lordship’s
orders are that you accompany them and carry the cartridges. And,
Charles, you will please keep count of the number fired and what is
killed dead, not reckoning runners. I’m sick of them stories of
runners.”
These directions were given in a portentous stage aside which we were
not supposed to hear. They caused Scroope to snigger and Charles to
grin, but in me they raised a feeling of indignation.
I took one of the guns and looked at it. It was a costly and
beautifully made weapon of the period, with an under-lever action.
“There’s nothing wrong with the gun, sir,” rumbled Red Waistcoat. “If
you hold it straight it will do the rest. But keep the muzzle up, sir,
keep it up, for I know what the bore is without studying the same with
my eye. Also perhaps you won’t take it amiss if I tell you that here at
Ragnall we hates a low pheasant. I mention it because the last
gentleman who came from foreign parts—he was French, he was—shot
nothing all day but one hen bird sitting just on the top of the brush,
two beaters, his lordship’s hat, and a starling.”
At this point Scroope broke into a roar of idiotic laughter. Charles,
from whom Fortune decreed that I was not to escape, after all, turned
his back and doubled up as though seized with sudden pain in the
stomach, and I grew absolutely furious.
“Confound it, Mr. Keeper,” I explained, “what do you mean by lecturing
me? Attend to your business, and I’ll attend to mine.”
At this moment who should appear from behind the angle of some
building—we were talking in the stableyard, near the gun-room—but Lord
Ragnall himself. I could see that he had overheard the conversation,
for he looked angry.
“Jenkins,” he said, addressing the keeper, “do what Mr. Quatermain has
said and attend to your own business. Perhaps you are not aware that he
has shot more lions, elephants, and other big game than you have cats.
But, however that may be, it is not your place to try to instruct him
or any of my guests. Now go and see to the beaters.”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” ejaculated Jenkins, his face, that was as florid
as his waistcoat, turning quite pale; “no offence meant, my lord, but
elephants and lions don’t fly, my lord, and those accustomed to such
ground varmin are apt to shoot low, my lord. Beaters all ready at the
Hunt Copse, my lord.”
Thus speaking he backed himself out of sight. Lord Ragnall watched him
go, then said with a laugh:
“I apologize to you, Mr. Quatermain. That silly old fool was part of my
inheritance, so to speak; and the joke of it is that he is himself the
worst and most dangerous shot I ever saw. However, on the other hand,
he is the best rearer of pheasants in the county, so I put up with him.
Come in, now, won’t you? Charles will look after your guns and
cartridges.”
So Scroope and I were taken through a side entrance into the big hall
and there introduced to the other members of the shooting party, most
of whom were staying at the castle. They were famous shots. Indeed, I
had read of the prowess of some of them in _The Field_, a paper that I
always took in Africa, although often enough, when I was on my distant
expeditions, I did not see a copy of it for a year at a time.
To my astonishment I found that I knew one of these gentlemen. We had
not, it is true, met for a dozen years; but I seldom forget a face, and
I was sure that I could not be mistaken in this instance. That mean
appearance, those small, shifty grey eyes, that red, pointed nose could
belong to nobody except Van Koop, so famous in his day in South Africa
in connexion with certain gigantic and most successful frauds that the
law seemed quite unable to touch, of which frauds I had been one of the
many victims to the extent of £250, a large sum for me.
The last time we met there had been a stormy scene between us, which
ended in my declaring in my wrath that if I came across him on the veld
I should shoot him at sight. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why
Mr. van Koop vanished from South Africa, for I may add that he was a
cur of the first water. I believe that he had only just entered the
room, having driven over from wherever he lived at some distance from
Ragnall. At any rate, he knew nothing of my presence at this shoot. Had
he known I am quite sure that he would have been absent. He turned, and
seeing me, ejaculated: “Allan Quatermain, by heaven!” beneath his
breath, but in such a tone of astonishment that it attracted the
attention of Lord Ragnall, who was standing near.
“Yes, Mr. van Koop,” I answered in a cheerful voice, “Allan Quatermain,
no other, and I hope you are as glad to see me as I am to see you.”
“I think there is some mistake,” said Lord Ragnall, staring at us.
“This is Sir Junius Fortescue, who used to be Mr. Fortescue.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “I don’t know that I ever remember his being
called by that particular name, but I do know that we are old—friends.”
Lord Ragnall moved away as though he did not wish to continue the
conversation, which no one else had overheard, and Van Koop sidled up
to me.
“Mr. Quatermain,” he said in a low voice, “circumstances have changed
with me since last we met.”
“So I gather,” I replied; “but mine have remained much the same, and if
it is convenient to you to repay me that £250 you owe me, with
interest, I shall be much obliged. If not, I think I have a good story
to tell about you.”
“Oh, Mr. Quatermain,” he answered with a sort of smile which made me
feel inclined to kick him, “you know I dispute that debt.”
“Do you?” I exclaimed. “Well, perhaps you will dispute the story also.
But the question is, will you be believed when I give the proofs?”
“Ever heard of the Statute of Limitations, Mr. Quatermain?” he asked
with a sneer.
“Not where character is concerned,” I replied stoutly. “Now, what are
you going to do?”
He reflected for a moment, and answered:
“Look here, Mr. Quatermain, you were always a bit of a sportsman, and
I’ll make you an offer. If I kill more birds than you do to-day, you
shall promise to hold your tongue about my affairs in South Africa; and
if you kill more than I do, you shall still hold your tongue, but I
will pay you that £250 and interest for six years.”
I also reflected for a moment, knowing that the man had something up
his sleeve. Of course, I could refuse and make a scandal. But that was
not in my line, and would not bring me nearer my £250, which, if I
chanced to win, might find its way back to me.
“All right, done!” I said.
“What is your bet, Sir Junius?” asked Lord Ragnall, who was approaching
again.
“It is rather a long story,” he answered, “but, to put it shortly,
years ago, when I was travelling in Africa, Mr. Quatermain and I had a
dispute as to a sum of £5 which he thought I owed him, and to save
argument about a trifle we have agreed that I should shoot against him
for it to-day.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Ragnall rather seriously, for I could see that he
did not believe Van Koop’s statement as to the amount of the bet;
perhaps he had heard more than we thought. “To be frank, Sir Junius, I
don’t much care for betting—for that’s what it comes to—here. Also I
think Mr. Quatermain said yesterday that he had never shot pheasants in
England, so the match seems scarcely fair. However, you gentlemen know
your own business best. Only I must tell you both that if money is
concerned, I shall have to set someone whose decision will be final to
count your birds and report the number to me.”
“Agreed,” said Van Koop, or, rather, Sir Junius; but I answered
nothing, for, to tell the truth, already I felt ashamed of the whole
affair.
As it happened, Lord Ragnall and I walked together ahead of the others,
to the first covert, which was half a mile or more away.
“You have met Sir Junius before?” he said to me interrogatively.
“I have met Mr. van Koop before,” I answered, “about twelve years
since, shortly after which he vanished from South Africa, where he was
a well-known and very successful—speculator.”
“To reappear here. Ten years ago he bought a large property in this
neighbourhood. Three years ago he became a baronet.”
“How did a man like Van Koop become a baronet?” I inquired.
“By purchase, I believe.”
“By purchase! Are honours in England purchased?”
“You are delightfully innocent, Mr. Quatermain, as a hunter from Africa
should be,” said Lord Ragnall, laughing. “Your friend——”
“Excuse me, Lord Ragnall, I am a very humble person, not so elevated,
indeed, as that gamekeeper of yours; therefore I should not venture to
call Sir Junius, late Mr. van Koop, my friend, at least in earnest.”
He laughed again.
“Well, the individual with whom you make bets subscribed largely to the
funds of his party. I am telling you what I know to be true, though the
amount I do not know. It has been variously stated to be from fifteen
to fifty thousand pounds, and, perhaps by coincidence, subsequently was
somehow created a baronet.”
I stared at him.
“That’s all the story,” he went on. “I don’t like the man myself, but
he is a wonderful pheasant shot, which passes him everywhere. Shooting
has become a kind of fetish in these parts, Mr. Quatermain. For
instance, it is a tradition on this estate that we must kill more
pheasants than on any other in the country, and therefore I have to ask
the best guns, who are not always the best fellows. It annoys me, but
it seems that I must do what was done before me.”
“Under those circumstances I should be inclined to give up the thing
altogether, Lord Ragnall. Sport as sport is good, but when it becomes a
business it grows hateful. I know, who have had to follow it as a trade
for many years.”
“That’s an idea,” he replied reflectively. “Meanwhile, I do hope that
you will win back your—£5 from Sir Junius. He is so vain that I would
gladly give £50 to see you do so.”
“There is little chance of that,” I said, “for, as I told you, I have
never shot pheasants before. Still, I’ll try, as you wish it.”
“That’s right. And look here, Mr. Quatermain, shoot well forward of
them. You see, I am venturing to advise you now, as you advised me
yesterday. Shot does not travel so fast as ball, and the pheasant is a
bird that is generally going much quicker than you think. Now, here we
are. Charles will show you your stand. Good luck to you.”
Ten minutes later the game began outside of a long covert, all the
seven guns being posted within sight of each other. So occupied was I
in watching the preliminaries, which were quite new to me, that I
allowed first a hare and then a hen pheasant to depart without firing
at them, which hen pheasant, by the way, curved round and was
beautifully killed by Van Koop, who stood two guns off upon my right.
“Look here, Allan,” said Scroope, “if you are going to beat your
African friend you had better wake up, for you won’t do it by admiring
the scenery or that squirrel on a tree.”
So I woke up. Just at that moment there was a cry of “cock forward.” I
thought it meant a cock pheasant, and was astonished when I saw a
beautiful brown bird with a long beak flitting towards me through the
tops of the oak trees.
“Am I to shoot at that?” I asked.
“Of course. It is a woodcock,” answered Scroope.
By this time the brown bird was rocking past me within ten yards. I
fired and killed it, for where it had been appeared nothing but a cloud
of feathers. It was a quick and clever shot, or so I thought. But when
Charles stepped out and picked from the ground only a beak and a head,
a titter of laughter went down the whole line of guns and loaders.
“I say, old chap,” said Scroope, “if you will use No. 3 shot, let your
birds get a little farther off you.”
The incident upset me so much that immediately afterwards I missed
three easy pheasants in succession, while Van Koop added two to his
bag.
Scroope shook his head and Charles groaned audibly. Now that I was not
in competition with his master he had become suddenly anxious that I
should win, for in some mysterious way the news of that bet had spread,
and my adversary was not popular amongst the keeper class.
“Here you come again,” said Scroope, pointing to an advancing pheasant.
It was an extraordinarily high pheasant, flushed, I think, outside the
covert by a stop, so high that, as it travelled down the line, although
three guns fired at it, including Van Koop, none of them seemed to
touch it. Then I fired, and remembering Lord Ragnall’s advice, far in
front. Its flight changed. Still it travelled through the air, but with
the momentum of a stone to fall fifty yards to my right, dead.
“That’s better!” said Scroope, while Charles grinned all over his round
face, muttering:
“Wiped his eye that time.”
This shot seemed to give me confidence, and I improved considerably,
though, oddly enough, I found that it was the high and difficult
pheasants which I killed and the easy ones that I was apt to muff. But
Van Koop, who was certainly a finished artist, killed both.
At the next stand Lord Ragnall, who had been observing my somewhat
indifferent performance, asked me to stand back with him behind the
other guns.
“I see the tall ones are your line, Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “and you
will get some here.”
On this occasion we were placed in a dip between two long coverts which
lay about three hundred yards apart. That which was being beaten proved
full of pheasants, and the shooting of those picked guns was really a
thing to see. I did quite well here, nearly, but not altogether, as
well as Lord Ragnall himself, though that is saying a great deal, for
he was a lovely shot.
“Bravo!” he said at the end of the beat. “I believe you have got a
chance of winning your £5, after all.”
When, however, at luncheon, more than an hour later, I found that I was
thirty pheasants behind my adversary, I shook my head, and so did
everybody else. On the whole, that luncheon, of which we partook in a
keeper’s house, was a very pleasant meal, though Van Koop talked so
continuously and in such a boastful strain that I saw it irritated our
host and some of the other gentlemen, who were very pleasant people. At
last he began to patronize me, asking me how I had been getting on with
my “elephant-potting” of late years.
I replied, “Fairly well.”
“Then you should tell our friends some of your famous stories, which I
promise I won’t contradict,” he said, adding: “You see, they are
different from us, and have no experience of big-game shooting.”
“I did not know that you had any, either, Sir Junius,” I answered,
nettled. “Indeed, I thought I remembered your telling me in Africa that
the only big game you had ever shot was an ox sick with the red-water.
Anyway, shooting is a business with me, not an amusement, as it is to
you, and I do not talk shop.”
At this he collapsed amid some laughter, after which Scroope, the most
loyal of friends, began to repeat exploits of mine till my ears
tingled, and I rose and went outside to look at the weather.
It had changed very much during luncheon. The fair promise of the
morning had departed, the sky was overcast, and a wind, blowing in
strong gusts, was rising rapidly, driving before it occasional scurries
of snow.
“My word,” said Lord Ragnall, who had joined me, “the Lake
covert—that’s our great stand here, you know—will take some shooting
this afternoon. We ought to kill seven hundred pheasants in it with
this team, but I doubt if we shall get five. Now, Mr. Quatermain, I am
going to stand Sir Junius Fortescue and you back in the covert, where
you will have the best of it, as a lot of pheasants will never face the
lake against this wind. What is more, I am coming with you, if I may,
as six guns are enough for this beat, and I don’t mean to shoot any
more to-day.”
“I fear that you will be disappointed,” I said nervously.
“Oh, no, I sha’n’t,” he answered. “I tell you frankly that if only you
could have a season’s practice, in my opinion you would make the best
pheasant shot of the lot of us. At present you don’t quite understand
the ways of the birds, that’s all; also those guns are strange to you.
Have a glass of cherry brandy; it will steady your nerves.”
I drank the cherry brandy, and presently off we went. The covert we
were going to shoot, into which we had been driving pheasants all the
morning, must have been nearly a mile long. At the top end it was
broad, narrowing at the bottom to a width of about two hundred yards.
Here it ran into a horse-shoe shaped piece of water that was about
fifty yards in breadth. Four of the guns were placed round the bow of
this water, but on its farther side, in such a position that the
pheasants should stream over them to yet another covert behind at the
top of a slope, Van Koop and I, however, were ordered to take our
places, he to the right and I to the left, about seventy yards up the
tongue in little glades in the woodland, having the lake to our right
and our left respectively. I noticed with dismay that we were so set
that the guns below us on its farther side could note all that we did
or did not do; also that a little band of watchers, among whom I
recognized my friend the gunsmith, were gathered in a place where,
without interfering with us, they could see the sport. On our way to
the boat, however, which was to row us across the water, an incident
happened that put me in very good spirits and earned some applause.
I was walking with Lord Ragnall, Scroope and Charles, about sixty yards
clear of a belt of tall trees, when from far away on the other side of
the trees came a cry of “Partridges over!” in the hoarse voice of the
red-waistcoated Jenkins, who was engaged in superintending the driving
in of some low scrub before he joined his army at the top of the
covert.
“Look out, Mr. Quatermain, they are coming this way,” said Lord
Ragnall, while Charles thrust a loaded gun into my hand.
Another moment and they appeared over the tree-tops, a big covey of
them in a long, straggling line, travelling at I know not what speed,
for a fierce gust from the rising gale had caught them. I fired at the
first bird, which fell at my feet. I fired again, and another fell
behind me. I snatched up the second gun and killed a third as it passed
over me high up. Then, wheeling round, I covered the last retreating
bird, and lo! it too fell, a very long shot indeed.
“By George!” said Scroope, “I never saw that done before,” while
Ragnall stared and Charles whistled.
But now I will tell the truth and expose all my weakness. The second
bird was not the one I aimed at. I was behind it and caught that which
followed. And in my vanity I did not own up, at least not till that
evening.
The four dead partridges—there was not a runner among them—having been
collected amidst many congratulations, we went on and were punted
across the lake to the covert. As we entered the boat I observed that,
in addition to the great bags, Charles was carrying a box of cartridges
under his arm, and asked him where he got it from.
He replied, from Mr. Popham—that was the gunsmith’s name—who had
brought it with him in case I should not have enough. I made no remark,
but as I knew I had quite half of my cartridges left out of the three
hundred and fifty that I had bought, I wondered to myself what kind of
a shoot this was going to be.
Well, we took up our stands, and while we were doing so, suddenly the
wind increased to a tearing gale, which seemed to me to blow from all
points of the compass in turn. Rooks flying homewards, and pigeons
disturbed by the beaters were swept over us like drifting leaves; wild
duck, of which I got one, went by like arrows; the great bare oaks
tossed their boughs and groaned; while not far off a fir tree was blown
down, falling with a splash into the water.
“It’s a wild afternoon,” said Lord Ragnall, and as he spoke Van Koop
came from his stand, looking rather scared, and suggested that the
shoot should be given up.
Lord Ragnall asked me what I wished to do. I replied that I would
rather go on, but that I was in his hands.
“I think we are fairly safe in these open places, Sir Junius,” he said;
“and as the pheasants have been so much disturbed already, it does not
much matter if they are blown about a bit. But if you are of another
opinion, perhaps you had better get out of it and stand with the others
over the lake. I’ll send for my guns and take your place.”
On hearing this Van Koop changed his mind and said that he would go on.
So the beat began. At first the wind blew from behind us, and pheasants
in increasing numbers passed over our heads, most of them rather low,
to the guns on the farther side of the water, who, skilled though they
were, did not make very good work with them. We had been instructed not
to fire at birds going forward, so I let these be. Van Koop, however,
did not interpret the order in the same spirit, for he loosed at
several, killing one or two and missing others.
“That fellow is no sportsman,” I heard Lord Ragnall remark. “I suppose
it is the bet.”
Then he sent Charles to ask him to desist.
Shortly after this the gale worked round to the north and settled
there, blowing with ever-increasing violence. The pheasants, however,
still flew forward in the shelter of the trees, for they were making
for the covert on the hill, where they had been bred. But when they got
into the open and felt the full force of the wind, quite four out of
six of them turned and came back at a most fearful pace, many so high
as to be almost out of shot.
For the next three-quarters of an hour or more—as I think I have
explained, the beat was a very long one—I had such covert shooting as I
suppose I shall never see again. High above those shrieking trees, or
over the lake to my left, flashed the wind-driven pheasants in an
endless procession. Oddly enough, I found that this wild work suited
me, for as time went on and the pheasants grew more and more
impossible, I shot better and better. One after another down they came
far behind me with a crash in the brushwood or a splash in the lake,
till the guns grew almost too hot to hold. There were so many of them
that I discovered I could pick my shots; also that nine out of ten were
caught by the wind and curved at a certain angle, and that the time to
fire was just before they took the curve. The excitement was great and
the sport splendid, as anyone will testify who has shot December
pheasants breaking back over the covert and in a tearing gale. Van Koop
also was doing very well, but the guns in front got comparatively
little shooting. They were forced to stand there, poor fellows, and
watch our performance from afar.
As the thing drew towards an end the birds came thicker and thicker,
and I shot, as I have said, better and better. This may be judged from
the fact that, notwithstanding their height and tremendous pace, I
killed my last thirty pheasants with thirty-five cartridges. The final
bird of all, a splendid cock, appeared by himself out of nothingness
when we thought that all was done. I think it must have been flushed
from the covert on the hill, or been turned back just as it reached it
by the resistless strength of the storm. Over it came, so high above us
that it looked quite small in the dark snow-scud.
“Too far—no use!” said Lord Ragnall, as I lifted the gun.
Still, I fired, holding I know not how much in front, and lo! that
pheasant died in mid air, falling with a mighty splash near the bank of
the lake, but at a great distance behind us. The shot was so remarkable
that everyone who saw it, including most of the beaters, who had passed
us by now, uttered a cheer, and the red-waistcoated old Jenkins, who
had stopped by us, remarked: “Well, bust me if that bain’t a master
one!”
Scroope made me angry by slapping me so hard upon the back that it
hurt, and nearly caused me to let off the other barrel of the gun.
Charles seemed to become one great grin, and Lord Ragnall, with a brief
congratulatory “Never enjoyed a shoot so much in my life,” called to
the men who were posted behind us to pick up all the dead pheasants,
being careful to keep mine apart from those of Sir Junius Fortescue.
“You should have a hundred and forty-three at this stand,” he said,
“allowing for every possible runner. Charles and I make the same
total.”
I remarked that I did not think there were many runners, as the No. 3
shot had served me very well, and getting into the boat was rowed to
the other side, where I received more congratulations. Then, as all
further shooting was out of the question because of the weather, we
walked back to the castle to tea.
As I emptied my cup Lord Ragnall, who had left the room, returned and
asked us to come and see the game. So we went, to find it laid out in
endless lines upon the snow-powdered grass in the quadrangle of the
castle, arranged in one main and two separate lots.
“Those are yours and Sir Junius’s,” said Scroope. “I wonder which of
you has won. I’ll put a sovereign on you, old fellow.”
“Then you’re a donkey for your pains,” I answered, feeling vexed, for
at that moment I had forgotten all about the bet.
I do not remember how many pheasants were killed altogether, but the
total was much smaller than had been hoped for, because of the gale.
“Jenkins,” said Lord Ragnall presently to Red Waistcoat, “how many have
you to the credit of Sir Junius Fortescue?”
“Two hundred and seventy-seven, my lord, twelve hares, two woodcocks,
and three pigeons.”
“And how many to that of Mr. Quatermain?” adding: “I must remind you
both, gentlemen, that the birds have been picked as carefully as
possible and kept unmixed, and therefore that the figures given by
Jenkins must be considered as final.”
“Quite so,” I answered, but Van Koop said nothing. Then, while we all
waited anxiously, came the amazing answer:
“Two hundred and seventy-seven pheasants, my lord, same number as those
of Sir Junius, Bart., fifteen hares, three pigeons, four partridges,
one duck, and a beak—I mean a woodcock.”
“Then it seems you have won your £5, Mr. Quatermain, upon which I
congratulate you,” said Lord Ragnall.
“Stop a minute,” broke in Van Koop. “The bet was as to pheasants; the
other things don’t count.”
“I think the term used was ‘birds,’” I remarked. “But to be frank, when
I made it I was thinking of pheasants, as no doubt Sir Junius was also.
Therefore, if the counting is correct, there is a dead heat and the
wager falls through.”
“I am sure we all appreciate the view you take of the matter,” said
Lord Ragnall, “for it might be argued another way. In these
circumstances Sir Junius keeps his £5 in his pocket. It is unlucky for
you, Quatermain,” he added, dropping the “mister,” “that the last high
pheasant you shot can’t be found. It fell into the lake, you remember,
and, I suppose, swam ashore and ran.”
“Yes,” I replied, “especially as I could have sworn that it was quite
dead.”
“So could I, Quatermain; but the fact remains that it isn’t there.”
“If we had all the pheasants that we think fall dead our bags would be
much bigger than they are,” remarked Van Koop, with a look of great
relief upon his face, adding in his horrid, patronizing way: “Still,
you shot uncommonly well, Quatermain. I’d no idea you would run me so
close.”
I felt inclined to answer, but didn’t. Only Lord Ragnall said:
“Mr. Quatermain shot more than well. His performance in the Lake covert
was the most brilliant that I have ever seen. When you went in there
together, Sir Junius, you were thirty ahead of him, and you fired
seventeen more cartridges at the stand.”
Then, just as we turned to go, something happened. The round-eyed
Charles ran puffing into the quadrangle, followed by another man with a
dog, who had been specially set to pick my birds, and carrying in his
hand a much-bedraggled cock pheasant without a tail.
“I’ve got him, my lord,” he gasped, for he had run very fast; “the
little gent’s—I mean that which he killed in the clouds with the last
shot he fired. It had gone right down into the mud and stuck there. Tom
and me fished him up with a pole.”
Lord Ragnall took the bird and looked at it. It was almost cold, but
evidently freshly killed, for the limbs were quite flexible.
“That turns the scale in favour of Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “so, Sir
Junius, you had better pay your money and congratulate him, as I do.”
“I protest,” exclaimed Van Koop, looking very angry and meaner than
usual. “How am I to know that this was Mr. Quatermain’s pheasant? The
sum involved is more than £5 and I feel it is my duty to protest.”
“Because my men say so, Sir Junius; moreover, seeing the height from
which the bird fell, their story is obviously true.”
Then he examined the pheasant further, pointing out that it appeared to
have only one wound—a shot through the throat almost exactly at the
root of the beak, of which shot there was no mark of exit. “What sized
shot were you using, Sir Junius?” he asked.
“No. 4 at the last stand.”
“And you were using No. 3, Mr. Quatermain. Now, was any other gun using
No. 3?”
All shook their heads.
“Jenkins, open that bird’s head. I think the shot that killed it will
be found in the brain.”
Jenkins obeyed, using a penknife cleverly enough. Pressed against the
bone of the skull he found the shot.
“No. 3 it is, sure enough, my lord,” he said.
“You will agree that settles the matter, Sir Junius,” said Lord
Ragnall. “And now, as a bet has been made here it had better be paid.”
“I have not enough money on me,” said Van Koop sulkily.
“I think your banker is mine,” said Lord Ragnall quietly, “so you can
write a cheque in the house. Come in, all of you, it is cold in this
wind.”
So we went into the smoking-room, and Lord Ragnall, who, I could see,
was annoyed, instantly fetched a blank cheque from his study and handed
it to Van Koop in rather a pointed manner.
He took it, and turning to me, said:
“I remember the capital sum, but how much is the interest? Sorry to
trouble you, but I am not very good at figures.”
“Then you must have changed a good deal during the last twelve years,
Sir Junius,” I could not help saying. “Still, never mind the interest,
I shall be quite satisfied with the principal.”
So he filled up the cheque for £250 and threw it down on the table
before me, saying something about its being a bother to mix up business
with pleasure.
I took the draft, saw that it was correct though rather illegible, and
proceeded to dry it by waving it in the air. As I did so it came into
my mind that I would not touch the money of this successful scamp, won
back from him in such a way.
Yielding to a perhaps foolish impulse, I said:
“Lord Ragnall, this cheque is for a debt which years ago I wrote off as
lost. At luncheon to-day you were talking of a Cottage Hospital for
which you are trying to get up an endowment fund in this neighbourhood,
and in answer to a question from you Sir Junius Fortescue said that he
had not as yet made any subscription to its fund. Will you allow me to
hand you Sir Junius’s subscription—to be entered in his name, if you
please?” And I passed him the cheque, which was drawn to myself or
bearer.
He looked at the amount, and seeing that it was not £5, but £250,
flushed, then asked:
“What do you say to this act of generosity on the part of Mr.
Quatermain, Sir Junius?”
There was no answer, because Sir Junius had gone. I never saw him
again, for years ago the poor man died quite disgraced. His passion for
semi-fraudulent speculations reasserted itself, and he became a
bankrupt in conditions which caused him to leave the country for
America, where he was killed in a railway accident while travelling as
an immigrant. I have heard, however, that he was not asked to shoot at
Ragnall any more.
The cheque was passed to the credit of the Cottage Hospital, but not,
as I had requested, as a subscription from Sir Junius Fortescue. A
couple of years later, indeed, I learned that this sum of money was
used to build a little room in that institution to accommodate sick
children, which room was named the Allan Quatermain ward.
Now, I have told this story of that December shoot because it was the
beginning of my long and close friendship with Ragnall.
When he found that Van Koop had gone away without saying good-bye, Lord
Ragnall made no remark. Only he took my hand and shook it.
I have only to add that, although, except for the element of
competition which entered into it, I enjoyed this day’s shooting very
much indeed, when I came to count up its cost I felt glad that I had
not been asked to any more such entertainments. Here it is, taken from
an old note-book:
Cartridges, including those not used and given to Charles £4 0 0
Game Licence 3 0 0
Tip to Red Waistcoat (keeper) 2 0 0
Tip to Charles 0 10 0
Tip to man who helped Charles to find pheasant 0 5 0
Tip to man who collected pheasants behind me 0 10 0
————-
£10 5 0
————-
Truly pheasant shooting in England is, or was, a sport for the rich!
CHAPTER III.
MISS HOLMES
Two and a half hours passed by, most of which time I spent lying down
to rest and get rid of a headache caused by the continual, rapid firing
and the roar of the gale, or both; also in rubbing my shoulder with
ointment, for it was sore from the recoil of the guns. Then Scroope
appeared, as, being unable to find my way about the long passages of
that great old castle, I had asked him to do, and we descended together
to the large drawing-room.
It was a splendid apartment, only used upon state occasions, lighted, I
should think, with at least two or three hundred wax candles, which
threw a soft glow over the panelled and pictured walls, the priceless
antique furniture, and the bejewelled ladies who were gathered there.
To my mind there never was and never will be any artificial light to
equal that of wax candles in sufficient quantity. The company was
large; I think thirty sat down to dinner that night, which was given to
introduce Lord Ragnall’s future wife to the neighbourhood, whereof she
was destined to be the leader.
Miss Manners, who was looking very happy and charming in her jewels and
fine clothes, joined us at once, and informed Scroope that “she” was
just coming; the maid in the cloakroom had told her so.
“Is she?” replied Scroope indifferently. “Well, so long as you have
come I don’t care about anyone else.”
Then he told her she was looking beautiful, and stared at her with such
affection that I fell back a step or two and contemplated a picture of
Judith vigorously engaged in cutting off the head of Holofernes.
Presently the large door at the end of the room was thrown open and the
immaculate Savage, who was acting as a kind of master of the
ceremonies, announced in well-bred but penetrating tones, “Lady Longden
and the Honourable Miss Holmes.” I stared, like everybody else, but for
a while her ladyship filled my eye. She was an ample and, to my mind,
rather awful-looking person, clad in black satin—she was a widow—and
very large diamonds. Her hair was white, her nose was hooked, her dark
eyes were penetrating, and she had a bad cold in her head. That was all
I found time to notice about her, for suddenly her daughter came into
my line of vision.
Truly she was a lovely girl, or rather, young woman, for she must have
been two or three-and-twenty. Not very tall, her proportions were
rounded and exquisite, and her movements as graceful as those of a doe.
Altogether she was doe-like, especially in the fineness of her lines
and her large and liquid eyes. She was a dark beauty, with rich brown,
waving hair, a clear olive complexion, a perfectly shaped mouth and
very red lips. To me she looked more Italian or Spanish than
Anglo-Saxon, and I believe that, as a matter of fact, she had some
southern blood in her on her father’s side. She wore a dress of soft
rose colour, and her only ornaments were a string of pearls and a
single red camellia. I could see but one blemish, if it were a blemish,
in her perfect person, and that was a curious white mark upon her
breast, which in its shape exactly resembled the crescent moon.
The face, however, impressed me with other than its physical qualities.
It was bright, intelligent, sympathetic and, just now, happy. But I
thought it more, I thought it mystical. Something that her mother said
to her, probably about her dress, caused her smile to vanish for a
moment, and then, from beneath it as it were, appeared this shadow of
innate mysticism. In a second it was gone and she was laughing again;
but I, who am accustomed to observe, had caught it, perhaps alone of
all that company. Moreover, it reminded me of something.
What was it? Ah! I knew. A look that sometimes I had seen upon the face
of a certain Zulu lady named Mameena, especially at the moment of her
wonderful and tragic death. The thought made me shiver a little; I
could not tell why, for certainly, I reflected, this high-placed and
fortunate English girl had nothing in common with that fate-driven
Child of Storm, whose dark and imperial spirit dwelt in the woman
called Mameena. They were as far apart as Zululand is from Essex. Yet
it was quite sure that both of them had touch with hidden things.
Lord Ragnall, looking more like a splendid Van Dyck than ever in his
evening dress, stepped forward to greet his fiancée and her mother with
a courtly bow, and I turned again to continue my contemplation of the
stalwart Judith and the very ugly head of Holofernes. Presently I was
aware of a soft voice—a very rich and thrilling voice—asking quite
close to me:
“Which is he? Oh! you need not answer, dear. I know him from the
description.”
“Yes,” replied Lord Ragnall to Miss Holmes—for it was she—“you are
quite right. I will introduce you to him presently. But, love, whom do
you wish to take you in to dinner? I can’t—your mother, you know; and
as there are no titles here to-night, you may make your choice. Would
you like old Dr. Jeffreys, the clergyman?”
“No,” she replied, with quiet firmness, “I know him; he took me in once
before. I wish Mr. Allan Quatermain to take me in. He is interesting,
and I want to hear about Africa.”
“Very well,” he answered, “and he _is_ more interesting than all the
rest put together. But, Luna, why are you always thinking and talking
about Africa? One might imagine that you were going to live there.”
“So I may one day,” she answered dreamily. “Who knows where one has
lived, or where one will live!” And again I saw that mystic look come
into her face.
I heard no more of that conversation, which it is improbable that
anyone whose ears had not been sharpened by a lifetime of listening in
great silences would have caught at all. To tell the truth, I made
myself scarce, slipping off to the other end of the big room in the
hope of evading the kind intentions of Miss Holmes. I have a great
dislike of being put out of my place, and I felt that among all these
local celebrities it was not fitting that I should be selected to take
in the future bride on an occasion of this sort. But it was of no use,
for presently Lord Ragnall hunted me up, bringing the young lady with
him.
“Let me introduce you to Miss Holmes, Quatermain,” he said. “She is
anxious that you should take her in to dinner, if you will be so kind.
She is very interested in—in——”
“Africa,” I suggested.
“In Mr. Quatermain, who, I am told, is one of the greatest hunters in
Africa,” she corrected me, with a dazzling smile.
I bowed, not knowing what to say. Lord Ragnall laughed and vanished,
leaving us together. Dinner was announced. Presently we were wending in
the centre of a long and glittering procession across the central hall
to the banqueting chamber, a splendid room with a roof like a church
that was said to have been built in the times of the Plantagenets. Here
Mr. Savage, who evidently had been looking out for her future ladyship,
conducted us to our places, which were upon the left of Lord Ragnall,
who sat at the head of the broad table with Lady Longden on his right.
Then the old clergyman, Dr. Jeffreys, a pompous and rather frowsy
ecclesiastic, said grace, for grace was still in fashion at such feasts
in those days, asking Heaven to make us truly thankful for the dinner
we were about to consume.
Certainly there was a great deal to be thankful for in the eating and
drinking line, but of all I remember little, except a general vision of
silver dishes, champagne, splendour, and things I did not want to eat
being constantly handed to me. What I do remember is Miss Holmes, and
nothing but Miss Holmes; the charm of her conversation, the light of
her beautiful eyes, the fragrance of her hair, her most flattering
interest in my unworthy self. To tell the truth, we got on “like fire
in the winter grass,” as the Zulus say, and when that dinner was over
the grass was still burning.
I don’t think that Lord Ragnall quite liked it, but fortunately Lady
Longden was a talkative person. First she conversed about her cold in
the head, sneezing at intervals, poor soul, and being reduced to send
for another handkerchief after the entrées. Then she got off upon
business matters; to judge from the look of boredom on her host’s face,
I think it must have been of settlements. Three times did I hear him
refer her to the lawyers—without avail. Lastly, when he thought he had
escaped, she embarked upon a quite vigorous argument with Dr. Jeffreys
about church matters—I gathered that she was “low” and he was “high”—in
which she insisted upon his lordship acting as referee.
“Do try and keep your attention fixed, George,” I heard her say
severely. “To allow it to wander when high spiritual affairs are under
discussion (sneeze) is scarcely reverent. Could you tell the man to
shut that door? The draught is dreadful. It is quite impossible for you
to agree with both of us, as you say you do, seeing that metaphorically
Dr. Jeffreys is at one pole and I am at the other.” (Sneeze.)
“Then I wish I were at the Tropic of Cancer,” I heard him mutter with a
groan.
In vain; he had to keep his “attention fixed” on this point for the
next three-quarters of an hour. So as Miss Manners was at the other
side of me, and Scroope, unhampered by the presence of any prospective
mother-in-law, was at the other side of her, for all practical purposes
Miss Holmes and I were left alone.
She began by saying:
“I hear you beat Sir Junius Fortescue out shooting to-day, and won a
lot of money from him which you gave to the Cottage Hospital. I don’t
like shooting, and I don’t like betting; and it’s strange, because you
don’t look like a man who bets. But I detest Sir Junius Fortescue, and
that is a bond of union between us.”
“I never said I detested him.”
“No, but I am sure you do. Your face changed when I mentioned his
name.”
“As it happens, you are right. But, Miss Holmes, I should like you to
understand that you were also right when you said I did not look like a
betting man.” And I told her some of the story of Van Koop and the
£250.
“Ah!” she said, when I had finished, “I always felt sure he was a
horror. And my mother wanted me, just because he pretended to be low
church—but that’s a secret.”
Then I congratulated her upon her approaching marriage, saying what a
joyful thing it was now and again to see everything going in real,
happy, storybook fashion: beauty, male and female, united by love, high
rank, wealth, troops of friends, health of body, a lovely and an
ancient home in a settled land where dangers do not come—at
present—respect and affection of crowds of dependents, the prospect of
a high and useful career of a sort whereof the door is shut to most
people, everything in short that human beings who are not actually
royalty could desire or deserve. Indeed after my second glass of
champagne I grew quite eloquent on these and kindred points, being
moved thereto by memories of the misery that is in the world which
formed so great a contrast to the lot of this striking and brilliant
pair.
She listened to me attentively and answered:
“Thank you for your kind thoughts and wishes. But does it not strike
you, Mr. Quatermain, that there is something ill-omened in such talk? I
believe that it does; that as you finished speaking it occurred to you
that after all the future is as much veiled from all of us as—as the
picture which hangs behind its curtain of rose-coloured silk in Lord
Ragnall’s study is from you.”
“How did you know that?” I asked sharply in a low voice. For by the
strangest of coincidences, as I concluded my somewhat old-fashioned
little speech of compliments, this very reflection had entered my mind,
and with it the memory of the veiled picture which Mr. Savage had
pointed out to me on the previous morning.
“I can’t say, Mr. Quatermain, but I did know it. You were thinking of
the picture, were you not?”
“And if I was,” I said, avoiding a direct reply, “what of it? Though it
is hidden from everybody else, he has only to draw the curtain and
see—you.”
“Supposing he should draw the curtain one day and see nothing, Mr.
Quatermain?”
“Then the picture would have been stolen, that is all, and he would
have to search for it till he found it again, which doubtless sooner or
later he would do.”
“Yes, sooner or later. But where? Perhaps you have lost a picture or
two in your time, Mr. Quatermain, and are better able to answer the
question than I am.”
There was silence for a few moments, for this talk of lost pictures
brought back memories which choked me.
Then she began to speak again, low, quickly, and with suppressed
passion, but acting wonderfully all the while. Knowing that eyes were
on her, her gestures and the expression of her face were such as might
have been those of any young lady of fashion who was talking of
everyday affairs, such as dancing, or flowers, or jewels. She smiled
and even laughed occasionally. She played with the golden salt-cellar
in front of her and, upsetting a little of the salt, threw it over her
left shoulder, appearing to ask me if I were a victim of that ancient
habit, and so on.
But all the while she was talking deeply of deep things, such as I
should never have thought would pass her mind. This was the substance
of what she said, for I cannot set it all down verbatim; after so many
years my memory fails me.
“I am not like other women. Something moves me to tell you so,
something very real and powerful which pushes me as a strong man might.
It is odd, because I have never spoken to anyone else like that, not to
my mother for instance, or even to Lord Ragnall. They would neither of
them understand, although they would misunderstand differently. My
mother would think I ought to see a doctor—and if you knew that doctor!
He,” and she nodded towards Lord Ragnall, “would think that my
engagement had upset me, or that I had grown rather more religious than
I ought to be at my age, and been reflecting too much—well, on the end
of all things. From a child I have understood that I am a mystery set
in the midst of many other mysteries. It all came to me one night when
I was about nine years old. I seemed to see the past and the future,
although I could grasp neither. Such a long, long past and such an
infinite future. I don’t know what I saw, and still see sometimes. It
comes in a flash, and is in a flash forgotten. My mind cannot hold it.
It is too big for my mind; you might as well try to pack Dr. Jeffreys
there into this wineglass. Only two facts remain written on my heart.
The first is that there is trouble ahead of me, curious and unusual
trouble; and the second, that permanently, continually, I, or a part of
me, have something to do with Africa, a country of which I know nothing
except from a few very dull books. Also, by the way—this is a new
thought—that I have a great deal to do with _you_. That is why I am so
interested in Africa and you. Tell me about Africa and yourself now,
while we have the chance.” And she ended rather abruptly, adding in a
louder voice, “You have lived there all your life, have you not, Mr.
Quatermain?”
“I rather think your mother would be right—about the doctor, I mean,” I
said.
“You _say_ that, but you don’t _believe_ it. Oh! you are very
transparent, Mr. Quatermain—at least, to me.”
So, hurriedly enough, for these subjects seemed to be uncomfortable,
even dangerous in a sense, I began to talk of the first thing about
Africa that I remembered—namely, of the legend of the Holy Flower that
was guarded by a huge ape, of which I had heard from a white man who
was supposed to be rather mad, who went by the name of Brother John.
Also I told her that there was something in it, as I had with me a
specimen of the flower.
“Oh! show it me,” she said.
I replied that I feared I could not, as it was locked away in a safe in
London, whither I was returning on the morrow. I promised, however, to
send her a life-sized water-colour drawing of which I had caused
several to be made. She asked me if I were going to look for this
flower, and I said that I hoped so if I could make the necessary
arrangements. Next she asked me if there chanced to be any other
African quests upon which I had set my mind. I replied that there were
several. For instance, I had heard vaguely through Brother John, and
indirectly from one or two other sources, of the existence of a certain
tribe in East Central Africa—Arabs or semi-Arabs—who were reported to
worship a child that always remained a child. This child, I took it,
was a dwarf; but as I was interested in native religious customs which
were infinite in their variety, I should much like to find out the
truth of the matter.
“Talking of Arabs,” she broke in, “I will tell you a curious story.
Once when I was a little girl, eight or nine years of age—it was just
before that kind of awakening of which I have spoken to you—I was
playing in Kensington Gardens, for we lived in London at the time, in
the charge of my nurse-governess. She was talking to some young man who
she said was her cousin, and told me to run about with my hoop and not
to bother. I drove the hoop across the grass to some elm trees. From
behind one of the trees came out two tall men dressed in white robes
and turbans, who looked to me like scriptural characters in a
picture-book. One was an elderly man with flashing, black eyes, hooked
nose, and a long grey beard. The other was much younger, but I do not
remember him so well. They were both brown in colour, but otherwise
almost like white men; not Negroes by any means. My hoop hit the elder
man, and I stood still, not knowing what to say. He bowed politely and
picked it up, but did not offer to return it to me. They talked
together rapidly, and one of them pointed to the moon-shaped birthmark
which you see I have upon my neck, for it was hot weather, and I was
wearing a low-cut frock. It was because of this mark that my father
named me Luna. The elder of the two said in broken English:
“‘What is your name, pretty little girl?’
“I told him it was Luna Holmes. Then he drew from his robe a box made
of scented wood, and, opening it, took out some sweetmeat which looked
as if it had been frozen, and gave me a piece that, being very fond of
sweet, I put into my mouth. Next, he bowled the hoop along the ground
into the shadow of the trees—it was evening time and beginning to grow
dark—saying, ‘Run, catch it, little girl!’
“I began to run, but something in the taste of that sweet caused me to
drop it from my lips. Then all grew misty, and the next thing I
remember was finding myself in the arms of the younger Eastern, with
the nurse and her ‘cousin,’ a stalwart person like a soldier, standing
in front of us.
“‘Little girl go ill,’ said the elder Arab. ‘We seek policeman.’
“‘You drop that child,’ answered the ‘cousin,’ doubling his fists. Then
I grew faint again, and when I came to myself the two white-robed men
had gone. All the way home my governess scolded me for accepting sweets
from strangers, saying that if my parents came to know of it, I should
be whipped and sent to bed. Of course, I begged her not to tell them,
and at last she consented. Do you know, I think you are the first to
whom I have ever mentioned the matter, of which I am sure the governess
never breathed a word, though after that, whenever we walked in the
gardens, her ‘cousin’ always came to look after us. In the end I think
she married him.”
“You believe the sweet was drugged?” I asked.
She nodded. “There was something very strange in it. It was a night or
two after I had tasted it that I had what just now I called my
awakening, and began to think about Africa.”
“Have you ever seen these men again, Miss Holmes?”
“No, never.”
At this moment I heard Lady Longden say, in a severe voice:
“My dear Luna, I am sorry to interrupt your absorbing conversation, but
we are all waiting for you.”
So they were, for to my horror I saw that everyone was standing up
except ourselves.
Miss Holmes departed in a hurry, while Scroope whispered in my ear with
a snigger:
“I say, Allan, if you carry on like that with his young lady, his
lordship will be growing jealous of you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said sharply. But there was something in his
remark, for as Lord Ragnall passed on his way to the other end of the
table, he said in a low voice and with rather a forced smile:
“Well, Quatermain, I hope your dinner has not been as dull as mine,
although your appetite seemed so poor.”
Then I reflected that I could not remember having eaten a thing since
the first entrée. So overcome was I that, rejecting all Scroope’s
attempts at conversation, I sat silent, drinking port and filling up
with dates, until not long afterwards we went into the drawing-room,
where I sat down as far from Miss Holmes as possible, and looked at a
book of views of Jerusalem.
While I was thus engaged, Lord Ragnall, pitying my lonely condition, or
being instigated thereto by Miss Holmes, I know not which, came up and
began to chat with me about African big-game shooting. Also he asked me
what was my permanent address in that country. I told him Durban, and
in my turn asked why he wanted to know.
“Because Miss Holmes seems quite crazy about the place, and I expect I
shall be dragged out there one day,” he replied, quite gloomily. It was
a prophetic remark.
At this moment our conversation was interrupted by Lady Longden, who
came to bid her future son-in-law good night. She said that she must go
to bed, and put her feet in mustard and water as her cold was so bad,
which left me wondering whether she meant to carry out this operation
in bed. I recommended her to take quinine, a suggestion she
acknowledged rather inconsequently by remarking in somewhat icy tones
that she supposed I sat up to all hours of the night in Africa. I
replied that frequently I did, waiting for the sun to rise next day,
for that member of the British aristocracy irritated me.
Thus we parted, and I never saw her again. She died many years ago,
poor soul, and I suppose is now freezing her former acquaintances in
the Shades, for I cannot imagine that she ever had a friend. They talk
a great deal about the influences of heredity nowadays, but I don’t
believe very much in them myself. Who, for instance, could conceive
that persons so utterly different in every way as Lady Longden and her
daughter, Miss Holmes, could be mother and child? Our bodies, no doubt,
we do inherit from our ancestors, but not our individualities. These
come from far away.
A good many of the guests went at the same time, having long distances
to drive on that cold frosty night, although it was only just ten
o’clock. For as was usual at that period even in fashionable houses, we
had dined at seven.
CHAPTER IV.
HARÛT AND MARÛT
After Lord Ragnall had seen his guests to the door in the old-fashioned
manner, he returned and asked me if I played cards, or whether I
preferred music. I was assuring him that I hated the sight of a card
when Mr. Savage appeared in his silent way and respectfully inquired of
his lordship whether any gentleman was staying in the house whose
Christian name was _Here-come-a-zany_. Lord Ragnall looked at him with
a searching eye as though he suspected him of being drunk, and then
asked what he meant by such a ridiculous question.
“I mean, my lord,” replied Mr. Savage with a touch of offence in his
tone, “that two foreign individuals in white clothes have arrived at
the castle, stating that they wish to speak at once with a _Mr.
Here-come-a-zany_ who is staying here. I told them to go away as the
butler said he could make nothing of their talk, but they only sat down
in the snow and said they would wait for _Here-come-a-zany_.”
“Then you had better put them in the old guardroom, lock them up with
something to eat, and send the stable-boy for the policeman, who is a
zany if ever anybody was. I expect they are after the pheasants.”
“Stop a bit,” I said, for an idea had occurred to me. “The message may
be meant for me, though I can’t conceive who sent it. My native name is
Macumazana, which possibly Mr. Savage has not caught quite correctly.
Shall I go to see these men?”
“I wouldn’t do that in this cold, Quatermain,” Lord Ragnall answered.
“Did they say what they are, Savage?”
“I made out that they were conjurers, my lord. At least when I told
them to go away one of them said, ‘You will go first, gentleman.’ Then,
my lord, I heard a hissing sound in my coat-tail pocket and, putting my
hand into it, I found a large snake which dropped on the ground and
vanished. It quite paralysed me, my lord, and while I stood there
wondering whether I was bitten, a mouse jumped out of the kitchenmaid’s
hair. She had been laughing at their dress, my lord, but _now_ she’s
screaming in hysterics.”
The solemn aspect of Mr. Savage as he narrated these unholy marvels was
such that, like the kitchenmaid, we both burst into ill-timed
merriment. Attracted by our laughter, Miss Holmes, Miss Manners, with
whom she was talking, and some of the other guests, approached and
asked what was the matter.
“Savage here declares that there are two conjurers in the kitchen
premises, who have been producing snakes out of his pocket and mice
from the hair of one of the maids, and who want to see Mr. Quatermain,”
Lord Ragnall answered.
“Conjurers! Oh, do have them in, George,” exclaimed Miss Holmes; while
Miss Manners and the others, who were getting a little tired of
promiscuous conversation, echoed her request.
“By all means,” he answered, “though we have enough mice here without
their bringing any more. Savage, go and tell your two friends that _Mr.
Here-come-a-zany_ is waiting for them in the drawing-room, and that the
company would like to see some of their tricks.”
Savage bowed and departed, like a hero to execution, for by his pallor
I could see that he was in a great fright. When he had gone we set to
work and cleared a space in the middle of the room, in front of which
we arranged chairs for the company to sit on.
“No doubt they are Indian jugglers,” said Lord Ragnall, “and will want
a place to grow their mango-tree, as I remember seeing them do in
Kashmir.”
As he spoke the door opened and Mr. Savage appeared through it, walking
much faster than was his wont. I noted also that he gripped the pockets
of his swallow-tail coat firmly in his hand.
“Mr. Hare-root and Mr. Mare-root,” he announced.
“Hare-root and Mare-root!” repeated Lord Ragnall.
“Harût and Marût, I expect,” I said. “I think I have read somewhere
that they were great magicians, whose names these conjurers have
taken.” (Since then I have discovered that they are mentioned in the
Koran as masters of the Black Art.)
A moment later two men followed him through the doorway. The first was
a tall, Eastern-looking person with a grave countenance, a long, white
beard, a hooked nose, and flashing, hawk-like eyes. The second was
shorter and rather stout, also much younger. He had a genial, smiling
face, small, beady-black eyes, and was clean-shaven. They were very
light in colour; indeed I have seen Italians who are much darker; and
there was about their whole aspect a certain air of power.
Instantly I remembered the story that Miss Holmes had told me at dinner
and looked at her covertly, to see that she had turned quite pale and
was trembling a little. I do not think that anyone else noticed this,
however, as all were staring at the strangers. Moreover she recovered
herself in a moment, and, catching my eye, laid her finger on her lips
in token of silence.
The men were clothed in thick, fur-lined cloaks, which they took off
and, folding them neatly, laid upon the floor, standing revealed in
robes of a beautiful whiteness and in large plain turbans, also white.
“High-class Somali Arabs,” thought I to myself, noting the while that
as they arranged the robes they were taking in every one of us with
their quick eyes. One of them shut the door, leaving Savage on this
side of it as though they meant him to be present. Then they walked
towards us, each of them carrying an ornamental basket made apparently
of split reeds, that contained doubtless their conjuring outfit and
probably the snake which Savage had found in his pocket. To my surprise
they came straight to me, and, having set down the baskets, lifted
their hands above their heads, as a person about to dive might do, and
bowed till the points of their fingers touched the floor. Next they
spoke, not in Arabic as I had expected that they would, but in Bantu,
which of course I understood perfectly well.
“I, Harût, head priest and doctor of the White Kendah People, greet
you, O Macumazana,” said the elder man.
“I, Marût, a priest and doctor of the People of the White Kendah, greet
you, O Watcher-by-night, whom we have travelled far to find,” said the
younger man. Then together,
“We both greet you, O Lord, who seem small but are great, O Chief with
a troubled past and with a mighty future, O Beloved of Mameena who has
‘gone down’ but still speaks from beneath, Mameena who was and is of
our company.”
At this point it was my turn to shiver and become pale, as any may
guess who may have chanced to read the history of Mameena, and the turn
of Miss Holmes to watch _me_ with animated interest.
“O Slayer of evil men and beasts!” they went on, in their rich-voiced,
monotonous chant, “who, as our magic tells us, are destined to deliver
our land from the terrible scourge, we greet you, we bow before you, we
acknowledge you as our lord and brother, to whom we vow safety among us
and in the desert, to whom we promise a great reward.”
Again they bowed, once, twice, thrice; then stood silent before me with
folded arms.
“What on earth are they saying?” asked Scroope. “I could catch a few
words”—he knew a little kitchen Zulu—“but not much.”
I told him briefly while the others listened.
“What does Mameena mean?” asked Miss Holmes, with a horrible acuteness.
“Is it a woman’s name?”
Hearing her, Harût and Marût bowed as though doing reverence to that
name. I am sorry to say that at this point I grew confused, though
really there was no reason why I should, and muttered something about a
native girl who had made trouble in her day.
Miss Holmes and the other ladies looked at me with amused disbelief,
and to my dismay the venerable Harût turned to Miss Holmes, and with
his inevitable bow, said in broken English:
“Mameena very beautiful woman, perhaps more beautiful than you, lady.
Mameena love the white lord Macumazana. She love him while she live,
she love him now she dead. She tell me so again just now. You ask white
lord tell you pretty story of how he kiss her before she kill herself.”
Needless to say all this very misleading information was received by
the audience with an attention that I can but call rapt, and in a kind
of holy silence which was broken only by a sudden burst of sniggering
on the part of Scroope. I favoured him with my fiercest frown. Then I
fell upon that venerable villain Harût, and belaboured him in Bantu,
while the audience listened as intently as though they understood.
I asked him what he meant by coming here to asperse my character. I
asked him who the deuce he was. I asked him how he came to know
anything about Mameena, and finally I told him that soon or late I
would be even with him, and paused exhausted.
He stood there looking for all the world like a statue of the patriarch
Job as I imagine him, and when I had done, replied without moving a
muscle and in English:
“O Lord, Zikali, Zulu wizard, friend of mine! All great wizard friend
just like all elephant and all snake. Zikali make me know Mameena, and
she tell me story and send you much love, and say she wait for you
always.” (More sniggers from Scroope, and still intenser interest
evinced by Miss Holmes and others.) “If you like, I show you Mameena
‘fore I go.” (Murmurs from Miss Holmes and Miss Manners of “Oh,
_please_ do!”) “But that very little business, for what one long-ago
lady out of so many?”
Then suddenly he broke into Bantu, and added: “A jest is a jest,
Macumazana, though often there is meaning in a jest, and you shall see
Mameena if you will. I come here to ask you to do my people a service
for which you shall not lack reward. We, the White Kendah, the People
of the Child, are at war with the Black Kendah, our subjects who
outnumber us. The Black Kendah have an evil spirit for a god, which
spirit from the beginning has dwelt in the largest elephant in all the
world, a beast that none can kill, but which kills many and bewitches
more. While that elephant, which is named Jana, lives we, the People of
the Child, go in terror, for day by day it destroys us. We have
learned—how it does not matter—that you alone can kill that elephant.
If you will come and kill it, we will show you the place where all the
elephants go to die, and you shall take their ivory, many wagon-loads,
and grow rich. Soon you are going on a journey that has to do with a
flower, and you will visit peoples named the Mazitu and the Pongo who
live on an island in a lake. Far beyond the Pongo and across the desert
dwell my people, the Kendah, in a secret land. When you wish to visit
us, as you will do, journey to the north of that lake where the Pongo
dwell, and stay there on the edge of the desert shooting till we come.
Now mock me if you will, but do not forget, for these things shall
befall in their season, though that time be far. If we meet no more for
a while, still do not forget. When you have need of gold or of the
ivory that is gold, then journey to the north of the lake where the
Pongo dwell, and call on the names of Harût and Marût.”
“And call on the names of Harût and Marût,” repeated the younger man,
who hitherto appeared to take no interest in our talk.
Next, before I could answer, before I could think the thing out indeed,
for all this breath from savage and mystical Africa blowing on me
suddenly here in an Essex drawing-room, seemed to overwhelm me, the
ineffable Harût proceeded in his English conjurer’s patter:
“Rich ladies and gentlemen want see trick by poor old wizard from
centre Africa. Well, we show them, but please ‘member no magic, all
quite simple trick. Teach it you if you pay. Please not look too hard,
no want you learn how it done. What you like see? Tree grow out of
nothing, eh? Good! Please lend me that plate—what you call him—china.”
Then the performance began. The tree grew admirably upon the china
plate under the cover of an antimacassar. A number of bits of stick
danced together on the said plate, apparently without being touched. At
a whistle from Marût a second snake crawled out of the pocket of the
horrified Mr. Savage, who stood observing these proceedings at a
respectful distance, erected itself on its tail upon the plate and took
fire till it was consumed to ashes, and so forth.
The show was very good, but to tell the truth I did not take much
notice of it, for I had seen similar things before and was engaged in
thoughts much excited by what Harût had said to me. At length the pair
paused amidst the clapping of the audience, and Marût began to pack up
the properties as though all were done. Then Harût observed casually:
“The Lord Macumazana think this poor business and he right. Very poor
business, any conjurer do better. All common trick”—here his eye fell
upon Mr. Savage who was wriggling uneasily in the background. “What
matter with that gentleman? Brother Marût, go see.”
Brother Marût went and freed Mr. Savage from two more snakes which
seemed to have taken possession of various parts of his garments. Also,
amidst shouts of laughter, from a large dead rat which he appeared to
draw from his well-oiled hair.
“Ah!” said Harût, as his confederate returned with these prizes,
leaving Savage collapsed in a chair, “snake love that gentleman much.
He earn great money in Africa. Well, he keep rat in hair; hungry snake
always want rat. But as I say, this poor business. Now you like to see
some better, eh? Mameena, eh?”
“No,” I replied firmly, whereat everyone laughed.
“Elephant Jana we want you kill, eh? Just as he look this minute.”
“Yes,” I said, “very much indeed, only how will you show it me?”
“That quite easy, Macumazana. You just smoke little Kendah ‘bacco and
see many things, if you have gift, as I _think_ you got, and as I
almost _sure_ that lady got,” and he pointed to Miss Holmes. “Sometimes
they things people want see, and sometimes they things people not want
see.”
“Dakka,” I said contemptuously, alluding to the Indian hemp on which
natives make themselves drunk throughout great districts of Africa.
“Oh! no, not dakka, that common stuff; this ‘bacco much better than
dakka, only grow in Kendah-land. You think all nonsense? Well, you see.
Give me match please.”
Then while we watched he placed some tobacco, at least it looked like
tobacco, in a little wooden bowl that he also produced from his basket.
Next he said something to his companion, Marût, who drew a flute from
his robe made out of a thick reed, and began to play on it a wild and
melancholy music, the sound of which seemed to affect my backbone as
standing on a great height often does. Presently too Harût broke into a
low song whereof I could not understand a word, that rose and fell with
the music of the flute. Now he struck a match, which seemed incongruous
in the midst of this semi-magical ceremony, and taking a pinch of the
tobacco, lit it and dropped it among the rest. A pale, blue smoke arose
from the bowl and with it a very sweet odour not unlike that of the
tuberoses gardeners grow in hot-houses, but more searching.
“Now you breathe smoke, Macumazana,” he said, “and tell us what you
see. Oh! no fear, that not hurt you. Just like cigarette. Look,” and he
inhaled some of the vapour and blew it out through his nostrils, after
which his face seemed to change to me, though what the change was I
could not define.
I hesitated till Scroope said:
“Come, Allan, don’t shirk this Central African adventure. I’ll try if
you like.”
“No,” said Harût brusquely, “_you_ no good.”
Then curiosity and perhaps the fear of being laughed at overcame me. I
took the bowl and held it under my nose, while Harût threw over my head
the antimacassar which he had used in the mango trick, to keep in the
fumes I suppose.
At first these fumes were unpleasant, but just as I was about to drop
the bowl they seemed to become agreeable and to penetrate to the inmost
recesses of my being. The general effect of them was not unlike that of
the laughing gas which dentists give, with this difference, that
whereas the gas produces insensibility, these fumes seemed to set the
mind on fire and to burn away all limitations of time and distance.
Things shifted before me. It was as though I were no longer in that
room but travelling with inconceivable rapidity.
Suddenly I appeared to stop before a curtain of mist. The mist rolled
up in front of me and I saw a wild and wonderful scene. There lay a
lake surrounded by dense African forest. The sky above was still red
with the last lights of sunset and in it floated the full moon. On the
eastern side of the lake was a great open space where nothing seemed to
grow and all about this space were the skeletons of hundreds of dead
elephants. There they lay, some of them almost covered with grey mosses
hanging to their bones, through which their yellow tusks projected as
though they had been dead for centuries; others with the rotting hide
still on them. I knew that I was looking on a cemetery of elephants,
the place where these great beasts went to die, as I have since been
told the extinct moas did in New Zealand. All my life as a hunter had I
heard rumours of these cemeteries, but never before did I see such a
spot even in a dream.
See! There was one dying now, a huge gaunt bull that looked as though
it were several hundred years old. It stood there swaying to and fro.
Then it lifted its trunk, I suppose to trumpet, though of course I
could hear nothing, and slowly sank upon its knees and so remained in
the last relaxation of death.
Almost in the centre of this cemetery was a little mound of
water-washed rock that had endured when the rest of the stony plain was
denuded in past epochs. Suddenly upon that rock appeared the shape of
the most gigantic elephant that ever I beheld in all my long
experience. It had one enormous tusk, but the other was deformed and
broken off short. Its sides were scarred as though with fighting and
its eyes shone red and wickedly. Held in its trunk was the body of a
woman whose hair hung down upon one side and whose feet hung down upon
the other. Clasped in her arms was a child that seemed to be still
living.
The rogue, as a brute of this sort is called, for evidently such it
was, dropped the corpse to the ground and stood a while, flapping its
ears. Then it felt for and picked up the child with its trunk, swung it
to and fro and finally tossed it high into the air, hurling it far
away. After this it walked to the elephant that I had just seen die,
and charged the carcass, knocking it over. Then having lifted its trunk
as though to trumpet in triumph, it shambled off towards the forest and
vanished.
The curtain of mist fell again and in it, dimly, I thought I saw—well,
never mind who or what I saw. Then I awoke.
“Well, did you see anything?” asked a chorus of voices.
I told them what I had seen, leaving out the last part.
“I say, old fellow,” said Scroope, “you must have been pretty clever to
get all that in, for your eyes weren’t shut for more than ten seconds.”
“Then I wonder what you would say if I repeated everything,” I
answered, for I still felt dreamy and not quite myself.
“You see elephant Jana?” asked Harût. “He kill woman and child, eh?
Well, he do that every night. Well, that why people of White Kendah
want you to kill _him_ and take all that ivory which they no dare touch
because it in holy place and Black Kendah not let them. So he live
still. That what we wish know. Thank you much, Macumazana. You very
good look-through-distance man. Just what I think. Kendah ‘bacco smoke
work very well in you. Now, beautiful lady,” he added turning to Miss
Holmes, “you like look too? Better look. Who knows what you see?”
Miss Holmes hesitated a moment, studying me with an inquiring eye. But
I made no sign, being in truth very curious to hear _her_ experience.
“Yes,” she said.
“I would prefer, Luna, that you left this business alone,” remarked
Lord Ragnall uneasily. “I think it is time that you ladies went to
bed.”
“Here is a match,” said Miss Holmes to Harût who was engaged in putting
more tobacco into the bowl, the suspicion of a smile upon his grave and
statuesque countenance. Harût received the match with a low bow and
fired the stuff as before. Then he handed the bowl, from which once
again the blue smoke curled upwards, to Miss Holmes, and gently and
gracefully let the antimacassar fall over it and her head, which it
draped as a wedding veil might do. A few seconds later she threw off
the antimacassar and cast the bowl, in which the fire was now out, on
to the floor. Then she stood up with wide eyes, looking wondrous lovely
and, notwithstanding her lack of height, majestic.
“I have been in another world,” she said in a low voice as though she
spoke to the air, “I have travelled a great way. I found myself in a
small place made of stone. It was dark in the place, the fire in that
bowl lit it up. There was nothing there except a beautiful statue of a
naked baby which seemed to be carved in yellow ivory, and a chair made
of ebony inlaid with ivory and seated with string. I stood in front of
the statue of the Ivory Child. It seemed to come to life and smile at
me. Round its neck was a string of red stones. It took them from its
neck and set them upon mine. Then it pointed to the chair, and I sat
down in the chair. That was all.”
Harût followed her words with an interest that I could see was intense,
although he attempted to hide it. Then he asked me to translate them,
which I did.
As their full sense came home to him, although his face remained
impassive, I saw his dark eyes shine with the light of triumph.
Moreover I heard him whisper to Marût words that seemed to mean,
“The Sacred Child accepts the Guardian. The Spirit of the White Kendah
finds a voice again.”
Then as though involuntarily, but with the utmost reverence, both of
them bowed deeply towards Miss Holmes.
A babel of conversation broke out.
“What a ridiculous dream,” I heard Lord Ragnall say in a vexed voice.
“An ivory child that seemed to come to life and to give you a necklace.
Whoever heard such nonsense?”
“Whoever heard such nonsense?” repeated Miss Holmes after him, as
though in polite acquiescence, but speaking as an automaton might
speak.
“I say,” interrupted Scroope, addressing Miss Manners, “this is a
drawing-room entertainment and a half, isn’t it, dear?”
“I don’t know,” answered Miss Manners, doubtfully, “it is rather too
queer for my taste. Tricks are all very well, but when it comes to
magic and visions I get frightened.”
“Well, I suppose the show is over,” said Lord Ragnall. “Quatermain,
would you mind asking your conjurer friends what I owe them?”
Here Harût, who had understood, paused from packing up his properties
and answered,
“Nothing, O great Lord, nothing. It is we owe you much. Here we learn
what we want know long time. I mean if elephant Jana still kill people
of Kendah. Kendah ‘bacco no speak to us. Only speak to new spirit. You
got great gift, lady, and you too, Macumazana. You not like smoke more
Kendah ‘bacco and look into past, eh? Better look! Very full, past,
learn much there about all us; learn how things begin. Make you
understand lot what seem odd to-day. No! Well, one day you look p’raps,
‘cause past pull hard and call loud, only no one hear what it say. Good
night, O great Lord. Good night, O beautiful lady. Good night, O
Macumazana, till we meet again when you come kill elephant Jana.
Blessing of the Heaven-Child, who give rain, who protect all danger,
who give food, who give health, on you all.”
Then making many obeisances they walked backwards to the door where
they put on their long cloaks.
At a sign from Lord Ragnall I accompanied them, an office which,
fearing more snakes, Mr. Savage was very glad to resign to me.
Presently we stood outside the house amidst the moaning trees, and very
cold it was there.
“What does all this mean, O men of Africa?” I asked.
“Answer the question yourself when you stand face to face with the
great elephant Jana that has in it an evil spirit, O Macumazana,”
replied Harût. “Nay, listen. We are far from our home and we sought
tidings through those who could give it to us, and we have won those
tidings, that is all. We are worshippers of the Heavenly Child that is
eternal youth and all good things, but of late the Child has lacked a
tongue. Yet to-night it spoke again. Seek to know no more, you who in
due season will know all things.”
“Seek to know no more,” echoed Marût, “who already, perhaps, know too
much, lest harm should come to you, Macumazana.”
“Where are you going to sleep to-night?” I asked.
“We do not sleep here,” answered Harût, “we walk to the great city and
thence find our way to Africa, where we shall meet you again. You know
that we are no liars, common readers of thought and makers of tricks,
for did not Dogeetah, the wandering white man, speak to you of the
people of whom he had heard who worshipped the Child of Heaven? Go in,
Macumazana, ere you take harm in this horrible cold, and take with you
this as a marriage gift from the Child of Heaven whom she met to-night,
to the beautiful lady stamped with the sign of the young moon who is
about to marry the great lord she loves.”
Then he thrust a little linen-wrapped parcel into my hand and with his
companion vanished into the darkness.
I returned to the drawing-room where the others were still discussing
the remarkable performance of the two native conjurers.
“They have gone,” I said in answer to Lord Ragnall, “to walk to London
as they said. But they have sent a wedding-present to Miss Holmes,” and
I showed the parcel.
“Open it, Quatermain,” he said again.
“No, George,” interrupted Miss Holmes, laughing, for by now she seemed
to have quite recovered herself, “I like to open my own presents.”
He shrugged his shoulders and I handed her the parcel, which was neatly
sewn up. Somebody produced scissors and the stitches were cut. Within
the linen was a necklace of beautiful red stones, oval-shaped like
amber beads and of the size of a robin’s egg. They were roughly
polished and threaded on what I recognized at once to be hair from an
elephant’s tail. From certain indications I judged these stones, which
might have been spinels or carbuncles, or even rubies, to be very
ancient. Possibly they had once hung round the neck of some lady in old
Egypt. Indeed a beautiful little statuette, also of red stone, which
was suspended from the centre of the necklace, suggested that this was
so, for it may well have been a likeness of one of the great gods of
the Egyptians, the infant Horus, the son of Isis.
“That is the necklace I saw which the Ivory Child gave me in my dream,”
said Miss Holmes quietly.
Then with much deliberation she clasped it round her throat.
CHAPTER V.
THE PLOT
The sequel to the events of this evening may be told very briefly and
of it the reader can form his own judgment. I narrate it as it
happened.
That night I did not sleep at all well. It may have been because of the
excitement of the great shoot in which I found myself in competition
with another man whom I disliked and who had defrauded me in the past,
to say nothing of its physical strain in cold and heavy weather. Or it
may have been that my imagination was stirred by the arrival of that
strange pair, Harût and Marût, apparently in search of myself, seven
thousand miles away from any place where they can have known aught of
an insignificant individual with a purely local repute. Or it may have
been that the pictures which they showed me when under the influence of
the fumes of their “tobacco”—or of their hypnotism—took an undue
possession of my brain.
Or lastly, the strange coincidence that the beautiful betrothed of my
host should have related to me a tale of her childhood of which she
declared she had never spoken before, and that within an hour the two
principal actors in that tale should have appeared before my eyes and
hers (for I may state that from the beginning I had no doubt that they
were the same men), moved me and filled me with quite natural
foreboding. Or all these things together may have tended to a
concomitant effect. At any rate the issue was that I could not sleep.
For hour after hour I lay thinking and in an irritated way listening
for the chimes of the Ragnall stable-clock which once had adorned the
tower of the church and struck the quarters with a damnable
reiteration. I concluded that Messrs. Harût and Marût were a couple of
common Arab rogues such as I had seen performing at the African ports.
Then a quarter struck and I concluded that the elephants’ cemetery
which I beheld in the smoke undoubtedly existed and that I meant to
collar those thousands of pounds’ worth of ivory before I died. Then
after another quarter I concluded that there was no elephants’
cemetery—although by the way my old friend, Dogeetah or Brother John,
had mentioned such a thing to me—but that probably there was a tribe,
as he had also mentioned, called the Kendah, who worshipped a baby, or
rather its effigy.
Well now, as had already occurred to me, the old Egyptians, of whom I
was always fond of reading when I got a chance, also worshipped a
child, Horus the Saviour. And that child had a mother called Isis
symbolised in the crescent moon, the great Nature goddess, the mistress
of mysteries to whose cult ten thousand priests were sworn—do not
Herodotus and others, especially Apuleius, tell us all about her? And
by a queer coincidence Miss Holmes had the mark of a crescent moon upon
her breast. And when she was a child those two men, or others very like
them, had pointed out that mark to each other. And I had seen them
staring hard at it that night. And in her vapour-invoked dream the
“Heavenly Child,” _alias_ Horus, or the double of Horus, the _Ka_, I
think the Egyptians called it, had awakened at the sight of her and
kissed her and given her the necklace of the goddess, and—all the rest.
What did it mean?
I went to sleep at last wondering what on earth it _could_ mean, till
presently that confounded clock woke me up again and I must go through
the whole business once more.
By degrees, this was towards dawn, I became aware that all hope of rest
had vanished from me utterly; that I was most painfully awake, and what
is more, oppressed by a curious fear to the effect that something was
going to happen to Miss Holmes. So vivid did this fear become that at
length I arose, lit a candle and dressed myself. As it happened I knew
where Miss Holmes slept. Her room, which I had seen her enter, was on
the same corridor as mine though at the other end of it near the head
of a stair that ran I knew not whither. In my portmanteau that had been
sent over from Miss Manners’s house, amongst other things was a small
double-barrelled pistol which from long habit I always carried with me
loaded, except for the caps that were in a little leather case with
some spare ammunition attached to the pistol belt. I took it out,
capped it and thrust it into my pocket. Then I slipped from the room
and stood behind a tall clock in the corridor, watching Miss Holmes’s
door and reflecting what a fool I should look if anyone chanced to find
me.
Half an hour or so later by the light of the setting moon which
struggled through a window, I saw the door open and Miss Holmes emerge
in a kind of dressing-gown and still wearing the necklace which Harût
and Marût had given her. Of this I was sure for the light gleamed upon
the red stones.
Also it shone upon her face and showed me without doubt that she was
walking in her sleep.
Gliding as silently as a ghost she crossed the corridor and vanished. I
followed and saw that she had descended an ancient, twisting stairway
which I had noted in the castle wall. I went after her, my stockinged
feet making no noise, feeling my way carefully in the darkness of the
stair, for I did not dare to strike a match. Beneath me I heard a noise
as of someone fumbling with bolts. Then a door creaked on its hinges
and there was some light. When I reached the doorway I caught sight of
the figure of Miss Holmes flitting across a hollow garden that was laid
out in the bottom of the castle moat which had been drained. The
garden, as I had observed when we walked through it on the previous day
on our way to the first covert that we shot, was bordered by a
shrubbery through which ran paths that led to the back drive of the
castle.
Across the garden glided the figure of Miss Holmes and after it went I,
crouching and taking cover behind every bush as though I were stalking
big game, which indeed I was. She entered the shrubbery, moving much
more swiftly now, for as she went she seemed to gather speed, like a
stone which is rolled down a hill. It was as though whatever might be
attracting her, for I felt sure that she was being drawn by something,
acted more strongly upon her sleeping will as she drew nearer to it.
For a while I lost sight of her in the shadow of the tall trees. Then
suddenly I saw her again, standing quite still in an opening caused by
the blowing down in the gale of one of the avenue of elms that bordered
the back drive. But now she was no longer alone, for advancing towards
her were two cloaked figures in whom I recognized Harût and Marût.
There she stood with outstretched arms, and towards her, stealthily as
lions stalking a buck, came Harût and Marût. Moreover, between the
naked boughs of the fallen elm I caught sight of what looked like the
outline of a closed carriage standing upon the drive. Also I heard a
horse stamp upon the frosty ground. Round the edge of the little glade
I ran, keeping in the dark shadow, as I went cocking the pistol that
was in my pocket. Then suddenly I darted out and stood between Harût
and Marût and Miss Holmes.
Not a word passed between us. I think that all three of us
subconsciously were anxious not to awake the sleeping woman, knowing
that if we did so there would be a terrible scene. Only after motioning
to me to stand aside, of course in vain, Harût and Marût drew from
their robes curved and cruel-looking knives and bowed, for even now
their politeness did not forsake them. I bowed back and when I
straightened myself those enterprising Easterns found that I was
covering the heart of Harût with my pistol. Then with that perception
which is part of the mental outfit of the great, they saw that the game
was up since I could have shot them both before a knife touched me.
“You have won this time, O Watcher-by-Night,” whispered Harût softly,
“but another time you will lose. That beautiful lady belongs to us and
the People of the White Kendah, for she is marked with the holy mark of
the young moon. The call of the Child of Heaven is heard in her heart,
and will bring her home to the Child as it has brought her to us
to-night. Now lead her hence still sleeping, O brave and clever one, so
well named Watcher-by-Night.”
Then they were gone and presently I heard the sound of horses being
driven rapidly along the drive.
For a moment I hesitated as to whether I would or would not run in and
shoot those horses. Two considerations stayed me. The first was that if
I did so my pistol would be empty, or even if I shot one horse and
retained a barrel loaded, with it I could only kill a single man,
leaving myself defenceless against the knife of the other. The second
consideration was that now as before I did not wish to wake up Miss
Holmes.
I crept to her and not knowing what else to do, took hold of one of her
outstretched hands. She turned and came with me at once as though she
knew me, remaining all the while fast asleep. Thus we went back to the
house, through the still open door, up the stairway straight to her own
room, on the threshold of which I loosed her hand. The room was dark
and I could see nothing, but I listened until I heard a sound as of a
person throwing herself upon the bed and drawing up the blankets. Then
knowing that she was safe for a while, I shut the door, which opened
outwards as doors of ancient make sometimes do, and set against it a
little table that stood in the passage.
Next, after reflecting for a minute, the circumstances being awkward in
many ways, I went to my room and lit a candle. Obviously it was my duty
to inform Lord Ragnall of what had happened and that as soon as
possible. But I had no idea in what part of that huge building his
sleeping place might be, nor, for patent reasons, was it desirable that
I should disturb the house and so create talk. In this dilemma I
remembered that Lord Ragnall’s confidential servant, Mr. Savage, when
he conducted me to my room on the previous night, which he made a point
of doing perhaps because he wished to talk over the matter of the
snakes that had found their way into his pockets, had shown me a bell
in it which he said rang outside his door. He called it an “emergency
bell.” I remarked idly that it was improbable that I should have any
occasion for its use.
“Who knows, sir?” said Mr. Savage prophetically. “There are folk who
say that this old castle is haunted, which after what I have seen
to-night I can well believe. If you should chance to meet a ghost
looking, let us say, like those black villains, Harum and Scarum, or
whatever they call themselves—well, sir, two’s better company than
one.”
I considered that bell but was loath to ring it for the reasons I have
given. Then I went outside the room and looked. As I had hoped might be
the case, there ran the wire on the face of the wall connected along
its length by other wires with the various rooms it passed.
I set to work and followed that wire. It was not an easy job; indeed
once or twice it reminded me of that story of the old Greek hero who
found his way through a labyrinth by means of a silken thread. I forget
whether it were a bull or a lady he was looking for, but with care and
perseverance he found one or the other, or it may have been both.
Down staircases and various passages I went with my eye glued upon the
wire, which occasionally got mixed up with other wires, till at length
it led me through a swing door covered with red baize into what
appeared to be a modern annexe to the castle. Here at last it
terminated on the spring of an alarming-looking and deep-throated bell
that hung immediately over a certain door.
On this door I knocked, hoping that it might be that of Mr. Savage and
praying earnestly that it did not enclose the chaste resting-place of
the cook or any other female. Too late, I mean after I had knocked, it
occurred to me that if so my position would be painful to a degree.
However in this particular Fortune stood my friend, which does not
always happen to the virtuous. For presently I heard a voice which I
recognized as that of Mr. Savage, asking, not without a certain quaver
in its tone,
“Who the devil is that?”
“Me,” I replied, being flustered.
“‘Me’ won’t do,” said the voice. “‘Me’ might be Harum or it might be
Scarum, or it might be someone worse. Who’s ‘Me’?”
“Allan Quatermain, you idiot,” I whispered through the keyhole.
“Anna who? Well, never mind. Go away, Hanna. I’ll talk to you in the
morning.”
Then I kicked the door, and at length, very cautiously, Mr. Savage
opened it.
“Good heavens, sir,” he said, “what are you doing here, sir? Dressed
too, at this hour, and with the handle of a pistol sticking out of your
pocket—or is it—the head of a snake?” and he jumped back, a strange and
stately figure in a long white nightshirt which apparently he wore over
his underclothing.
I entered the room and shut the door, whereon he politely handed me a
chair, remarking,
“Is it ghosts, sir, or are you ill, or is it Harum and Scarum, of whom
I have been thinking all night? Very cold too, sir, being afraid to
pull up the bedclothes for fear lest there might be more reptiles in
them.” He pointed to his dress-coat hanging on the back of another
chair with both the pockets turned inside out, adding tragically, “To
think, sir, that this new coat has been a nest of snakes, which I have
hated like poison from a child, and me almost a teetotaller!”
“Yes,” I said impatiently, “it’s Harum and Scarum as you call them.
Take me to Lord Ragnall’s bedroom at once.”
“Ah! sir, burgling, I suppose, or mayhap worse,” he exclaimed as he
threw on some miscellaneous garments and seized a life-preserver which
hung upon a hook. “Now I’m ready, only I hope they have left their
snakes behind. I never could bear the sight of a snake, and they seem
to know it—the brutes.”
In due course we reached Lord Ragnall’s room, which Mr. Savage entered,
and in answer to a stifled inquiry exclaimed,
“Mr. Allan Quatermain to see you, my lord.”
“What is it, Quatermain?” he asked, sitting up in bed and yawning.
“Have you had a nightmare?”
“Yes,” I answered, and Savage having left us and shut the door, I told
him everything as it is written down.
“Great heavens!” he exclaimed when I had finished. “If it had not been
for you and your intuition and courage——”
“Never mind me,” I interrupted. “The question is—what should be done
now? Are you going to try to arrest these men, or will you—hold your
tongue and merely cause them to be watched?”
“Really I don’t know. Even if we can catch them the whole story would
sound so strange in a law-court, and all sorts of things might be
suggested.”
“Yes, Lord Ragnall, it would sound so strange that I beg you will come
at once to see the evidences of what I tell you, before rain or snow
obliterates them, bringing another witness with you. Lady Longden,
perhaps.”
“Lady Longden! Why one might as well write to _The Times_. I have it!
There’s Savage. He is faithful and can be silent.”
So Savage was called in and, while Lord Ragnall dressed himself
hurriedly, told the outline of his story under pain of instant
dismissal if he breathed a word. Really to watch his face was as good
as a play. So astonished was he that all he could ejaculate was—
“The black-hearted villains! Well, they ain’t friendly with snakes for
nothing.”
Then having made sure that Miss Holmes was still in her room, we went
down the twisting stair and through the side doorway, locking the door
after us. By now the dawn was breaking and there was enough light to
enable me in certain places where the snow that fell after the gale
remained, to show Lord Ragnall and Savage the impress of the little
bedroom slippers which Miss Holmes wore, and of my stockinged feet
following after.
In the plantation things were still easier, for every detail of the
movements of the four of us could be traced. Moreover, on the back
drive was the spoor of the horses and the marks of the wheels of the
carriage that had been brought for the purposes of the abduction. Also
my great good fortune, for this seemed to prove my theory, we found a
parcel wrapped in native linen that appeared to have fallen out of the
carriage when Harût and Marût made their hurried escape, as one of the
wheels had gone over it. It contained an Eastern woman’s dress and
veil, intended, I suppose, to be used in disguising Miss Holmes, who
thence-forward would have appeared to be the wife or daughter of one of
the abductors.
Savage discovered this parcel, which he lifted only to drop it with a
yell, for underneath it lay a torpid snake, doubtless one of those that
had been used in the performance.
Of these discoveries and many other details, on our return to the
house, Lord Ragnall made full notes in a pocket-book, that when
completed were signed by all three of us.
There is not much more to tell, that is of this part of the story. The
matter was put into the hands of detectives who discovered that the
Easterns had driven to London, where all traces of the carriage which
conveyed them was lost. They, however, embarked upon a steamer called
the _Antelope_, together with two native women, who probably had been
provided to look after Miss Holmes, and sailed that very afternoon for
Egypt. Thither, of course, it was useless to follow them in those days,
even if it had been advisable to do so.
To return to Miss Holmes. She came down to breakfast looking very
charming but rather pale. Again I sat next to her and took some
opportunity to ask her how she had rested that night.
She replied, Very well and yet very ill, since, although she never
remembered sleeping more soundly in her life, she had experienced all
sorts of queer dreams of which she could remember nothing at all, a
circumstance that annoyed her much, as she was sure that they were most
interesting. Then she added,
“Do you know, Mr. Quatermain, I found a lot of mud on my dressing-gown
this morning, and my bedroom slippers were also a mass of mud and wet
through. How do you account for that? It is just as though I had been
walking about outside in my sleep, which is absurd, as I never did such
a thing in my life.”
Not feeling equal to the invention of any convincing explanation of
these phenomena, I upset the marmalade pot on to the table in such a
way that some of it fell upon her dress, and then covered my retreat
with profuse apologies. Understanding my dilemma, for he had heard
something of this talk, Lord Ragnall came to my aid with a startling
statement of which I forget the purport, and thus that crisis passed.
Shortly after breakfast Scroope announced to Miss Manners that her
carriage was waiting, and we departed. Before I went, as it chanced, I
had a few private words with my host, with Miss Holmes, and with the
magnificent Mr. Savage. To the last, by the way, I offered a tip which
he refused, saying that after all we had gone through together he could
not allow “money to come between us,” by which he meant, to pass from
my pocket to his. Lord Ragnall asked me for both my English and my
African addresses, which he noted in his pocket-book. Then he said,
“Really, Quatermain, I feel as though I had known you for years instead
of three days; if you will allow me I will add that I should like to
know a great deal more of you.” (He was destined to do so, poor fellow,
though neither of us knew it at the time.) “If ever you come to England
again I hope you will make this house your headquarters.”
“And if ever you come to South Africa, Lord Ragnall, I hope you will
make my four-roomed shanty on the Berea at Durban your headquarters.
You will get a hearty welcome there and something to eat, but little
more.”
“There is nothing I should like better, Quatermain. Circumstances have
put me in a certain position in this country, still to tell you the
truth there is a great deal about the life of which I grow very tired.
But you see I am going to be married, and that I fear means an end of
travelling, since naturally my wife will wish to take her place in
society and the rest.”
“Of course,” I replied, “for it is not every young lady who has the
luck to become an English peeress with all the etceteras, is it? Still
I am not so sure but that Miss Holmes will take to travelling some day,
although I _am_ sure that she would do better to stay at home.”
He looked at me curiously, then asked,
“You don’t think there is anything really serious in all this business,
do you?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I answered, “except that you will do well
to keep a good eye upon your wife. What those Easterns tried to do last
night and, I think, years ago, they may try again soon, or years hence,
for evidently they are patient and determined men with much to win.
Also it is a curious coincidence that she should have that mark upon
her which appeals so strongly to Messrs. Harût and Marût, and, to be
brief, she is in some ways different from most young women. As she said
to me herself last night, Lord Ragnall, we are surrounded by mysteries;
mysteries of blood, of inherited spirit, of this world generally in
which it is probable that we all descended from quite a few common
ancestors. And beyond these are other mysteries of the measureless
universe to which we belong, that may already be exercising their
strong and secret influences upon us, as perhaps, did we know it, they
have done for millions of years in the Infinite whence we came and
whither we go.”
I suppose I spoke somewhat solemnly, for he said,
“Do you know you frighten me a little, though I don’t quite understand
what you mean.” Then we parted.
With Miss Holmes my conversation was shorter. She remarked,
“It has been a great pleasure to me to meet you. I do not remember
anybody with whom I have found myself in so much sympathy—except one of
course. It is strange to think that when we meet again I shall be a
married woman.”
“I do not suppose we shall ever meet again, Miss Holmes. Your life is
here, mine is in the wildest places of a wild land far away.”
“Oh! yes, we shall,” she answered. “I learned this and lots of other
things when I held my head in that smoke last night.”
Then we also parted.
Lastly Mr. Savage arrived with my coat. “Goodbye, Mr. Quatermain,” he
said. “If I forget everything else I shall never forget you and those
villains, Harum and Scarum and their snakes. I hope it won’t be my lot
ever to clap eyes on them again, Mr. Quatermain, and yet somehow I
don’t feel so sure of that.”
“Nor do I,” I replied, with a kind of inspiration, after which followed
the episode of the rejected tip.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BONA FIDE GOLD MINE
Fully two years had gone by since I bade farewell to Lord Ragnall and
Miss Holmes, and when the curtain draws up again behold me seated on
the stoep of my little house at Durban, plunged in reflection and very
sad indeed. Why I was sad I will explain presently.
In that interval of time I had heard once or twice about Lord Ragnall.
Thus I received from Scroope a letter telling of his lordship’s
marriage with Miss Holmes, which, it appeared, had been a very fine
affair indeed, quite one of the events of the London season. Two
Royalties attended the ceremony, a duke was the best man, and the
presents according to all accounts were superb and of great value,
including a priceless pearl necklace given by the bridegroom to the
bride. A cutting from a society paper which Scroope enclosed dwelt at
length upon the splendid appearance of the bridegroom and the sweet
loveliness of the bride. Also it described her dress in language which
was Greek to me. One sentence, however, interested me intensely.
It ran: “The bride occasioned some comment by wearing only one
ornament, although the Ragnall family diamonds, which have not seen the
light for many years, are known to be some of the finest in the
country. It was a necklace of what appeared to be large but rather
roughly polished rubies, to which hung a small effigy of an Egyptian
god also fashioned from a ruby. It must be added that although of an
unusual nature on such an occasion this jewel suited her dark beauty
well. Lady Ragnall’s selection of it, however, from the many she
possesses was the cause of much speculation. When asked by a friend why
she had chosen it, she is reported to have said that it was to bring
her good fortune.”
Now why did she wear the barbaric marriage gift of Harût and Marût in
preference to all the other gems at her disposal, I wondered. The thing
was so strange as to be almost uncanny.
The second piece of information concerning this pair reached me through
the medium of an old _Times_ newspaper which I received over a year
later. It was to the effect that a son and heir had been born to Lord
Ragnall and that both mother and child were doing well.
So there’s the end to a very curious little story, thought I to myself.
Well, during those two years many things befell me. First of all, in
company with my old friend Sir Stephen Somers, I made the expedition to
Pongoland in search of the wonderful orchid which he desired to add to
his collection. I have already written of that journey and our
extraordinary adventures, and need therefore allude to it no more here,
except to say that during the course of it I was sorely tempted to
travel to the territory north of the lake in which the Pongos dwelt.
Much did I desire to see whether Messrs. Harût and Marût would in truth
appear to conduct me to the land where the wonderful elephant which was
supposed to be animated by an evil spirit was waiting to be killed by
my rifle. However, I resisted the impulse, as indeed our circumstances
obliged me to do. In the end we returned safely to Durban, and here I
came to the conclusion that never again would I risk my life on such
mad expeditions.
Owing to circumstances which I have detailed elsewhere I was now in
possession of a considerable sum of cash, and this I determined to lay
out in such a fashion as to make me independent of hunting and trading
in the wilder regions of Africa. As usual when money is forthcoming, an
opportunity soon presented itself in the shape of a gold mine which had
been discovered on the borders of Zululand, one of the first that was
ever found in those districts. A Jew trader named Jacob brought it to
my notice and offered me a half share if I would put up the capital
necessary to work the mine. I made a journey of inspection and
convinced myself that it was indeed a wonderful proposition. I need not
enter into the particulars nor, to tell the truth, have I any desire to
do so, for the subject is still painful to me, further than to say that
this Jew and some friends of his panned out visible gold before my eyes
and then revealed to me the magnificent quartz reef from which, as they
demonstrated, it had been washed in the bygone ages of the world. The
news of our discovery spread like wildfire, and as, whatever else I
might be, everyone knew that I was honest, in the end a small company
was formed with Allan Quatermain, Esq., as the chairman of the Bona
Fide Gold Mine, Limited.
Oh! that company! Often to this day I dream of it when I have
indigestion.
Our capital was small, £10,000, of which the Jew, who was well named
Jacob, and his friends, took half (for nothing of course) as the
purchase price of their rights. I thought the proportion large and said
so, especially after I had ascertained that these rights had cost them
exactly three dozen of square-face gin, a broken-down wagon, four cows
past the bearing age and £5 in cash. However, when it was pointed out
to me that by their peculiar knowledge and genius they had located and
proved the value of a property of enormous potential worth, moreover
that this sum was to be paid to them in scrip which would only be
realizable when success was assured and not in money, after a night of
anxious consideration I gave way.
Personally, before I consented to accept the chairmanship, which
carried with it a salary of £100 a year (which I never got), I bought
and paid for in cash, shares to the value of £1,000 sterling. I
remember that Jacob and his friends seemed surprised at this act of
mine, as they had offered to give me five hundred of their shares for
nothing “in consideration of the guarantee of my name.” These I
refused, saying that I would not ask others to invest in a venture in
which I had no actual money stake; whereon they accepted my decision,
not without enthusiasm. In the end the balance of £4,000 was subscribed
and we got to work. Work is a good name for it so far as I was
concerned, for never in all my days have I gone through so harrowing a
time.
We began by washing a certain patch of gravel and obtained results
which seemed really astonishing. So remarkable were they that on
publication the shares rose to 10s. premium. Jacob and Co. took
advantage of this opportunity to sell quite half of their bonus holding
to eager applicants, explaining to me that they did so not for personal
profit, which they scorned, but “to broaden the basis of the
undertaking by admitting fresh blood.”
It was shortly after this boom that the gravel surrounding the rich
patch became very gravelly indeed, and it was determined that we should
buy a small battery and begin to crush the quartz from which the gold
was supposed to flow in a Pactolian stream. We negotiated for that
battery through a Cape Town firm of engineers—but why follow the
melancholy business in all its details? The shares began to decrease in
value. They shrank to their original price of £1, then to 15s., then to
10s. Jacob, he was managing director, explained to me that it was
necessary to “support the market,” as he was already doing to an
enormous extent, and that I as chairman ought to take a “lead in this
good work” in order to show my faith in the concern.
I took a lead to the extent of another £500, which was all that I could
afford. I admit that it was a shock to such trust in human nature as
remained to me when I discovered subsequently that the 1,000 shares
which I bought for my £500 had really been the property of Jacob,
although they appeared to be sold to me in various other names.
The crisis came at last, for before that battery was delivered our
available funds were exhausted, and no one would subscribe another
halfpenny. Debentures, it is true, had been issued and taken up to the
extent of about £1,000 out of the £5,000 offered, though who bought
them remained at the time a mystery to me. Ultimately a meeting was
called to consider the question of liquidating the company, and at this
meeting, after three sleepless nights, I occupied the chair.
When I entered the room, to my amazement I found that of the five
directors only one was present besides myself, an honest old retired
sea captain who had bought and paid for 300 shares. Jacob and the two
friends who represented his interests had, it appeared, taken ship that
morning for Cape Town, whither they were summoned to attend various
relatives who had been seized with illness.
It was a stormy meeting at first. I explained the position to the best
of my ability, and when I had finished was assailed with a number of
questions which I could not answer to the satisfaction of myself or of
anybody else. Then a gentleman, the owner of ten shares, who had
evidently been drinking, suggested in plain language that I had cheated
the shareholders by issuing false reports.
I jumped up in a fury and, although he was twice my size, asked him to
come and argue the question outside, whereon he promptly went away.
This incident excited a laugh, and then the whole truth came out. A man
with coloured blood in him stood up and told a story which was
subsequently proved to be true. Jacob had employed him to “salt” the
mine by mixing a heavy sprinkling of gold in the gravel we had first
washed (which the coloured man swore he did in innocence), and
subsequently had defrauded him of his wages. That was all. I sank back
in my chair overcome. Then some good fellow in the audience, who had
lost money himself in the affair and whom I scarcely knew, got up and
made a noble speech which went far to restore my belief in human
nature.
He said in effect that it was well known that I, Allan Quatermain,
after working like a horse in the interests of the shareholders, had
practically ruined myself over this enterprise, and that the real thief
was Jacob, who had made tracks for the Cape, taking with him a large
cash profit resulting from the sale of shares. Finally he concluded by
calling for “three cheers for our honest friend and fellow sufferer,
Mr. Allan Quatermain.”
Strange to say the audience gave them very heartily indeed. I thanked
them with tears in my eyes, saying that I was glad to leave the room as
poor as I had ever been, but with a reputation which my conscience as
well as their kindness assured me was quite unblemished.
Thus the winding-up resolution was passed and that meeting came to an
end. After shaking hands with my deliverer from a most unpleasant
situation, I walked homewards with the lightest heart in the world. My
money was gone, it was true; also my over-confidence in others had led
me to make a fool of myself by accepting as fact, on what I believed to
be the evidence of my eyes, that which I had not sufficient expert
knowledge to verify. But my honour was saved, and as I have again and
again seen in the course of life, money is nothing when compared with
honour, a remark which Shakespeare made long ago, though like many
other truths this is one of which a full appreciation can only be
gained by personal experience.
Not very far from the place where our meeting had been held I passed a
side street then in embryo, for it had only one or two houses situated
in their gardens and a rather large and muddy sluit of water running
down one side at the edge of the footpath. Save for two people this
street was empty, but that pair attracted my attention. They were a
white man, in whom I recognized the stout and half-intoxicated
individual who had accused me of cheating the company and then
departed, and a withered old Hottentot who at that distance, nearly a
hundred yards away, much reminded me of a certain Hans.
This Hans, I must explain, was originally a servant of my father, who
was a missionary in the Cape Colony, and had been my companion in many
adventures. Thus in my youth he and I alone escaped when Dingaan
murdered Retief and his party of Boers,[1] and he had been one of my
party in our quest for the wonderful orchid, the record of which I have
written down in “The Holy Flower.”
[1] See the book called “Marie.”—EDITOR.
Hans had his weak points, among which must be counted his love of
liquor, but he was a gallant and resourceful old fellow as indeed he
had amply proved upon that orchid-seeking expedition. Moreover he loved
me with a love passing the love of women. Now, having acquired some
money in a way I need not stop to describe—for is it not written
elsewhere?—he was settled as a kind of little chief on a farm not very
far from Durban, where he lived in great honour because of the fame of
his deeds.
The white man and Hans, if Hans it was, were engaged in violent
altercation whereof snatches floated to me on the breeze, spoken in the
Dutch tongue.
“You dirty little Hottentot!” shouted the white man, waving a stick,
“I’ll cut the liver out of you. What do you mean by nosing about after
me like a jackal?” And he struck at Hans, who jumped aside.
“Son of a fat white sow,” screamed Hans in answer (for the moment I
heard his voice I knew that it was Hans), “did you dare to call the
Baas a thief? Yes, a thief, O Rooter in the mud, O Feeder on filth and
worms, O Hog of the gutter—the Baas, the clipping of whose nail is
worth more than you and all your family, he whose honour is as clear as
the sunlight and whose heart is cleaner than the white sand of the
sea.”
“Yes, I did,” roared the white man; “for he got my money in the gold
mine.”
“Then, hog, why did you run away. Why did you not wait to tell him so
outside that house?”
“I’ll teach you about running away, you little yellow dog,” replied the
other, catching Hans a cut across the ribs.
“Oh! you want to see me run, do you?” said Hans, skipping back a few
yards with wonderful agility. “Then look!”
Thus speaking he lowered his head and charged like a buffalo. Fair in
the middle he caught that white man, causing him to double up, fly
backwards and land with a most resounding splash in the deepest part of
the muddy sluit. Here I may remark that, as his shins are the weakest,
a Hottentot’s head is by far the hardest and most dangerous part of
him. Indeed it seems to partake of the nature of a cannon ball, for,
without more than temporary disturbance to its possessor, I have seen a
half-loaded wagon go over one of them on a muddy road.
Having delivered this home thrust Hans bolted round a corner and
disappeared, while I waited trembling to see what happened to his
adversary. To my relief nearly a minute later he crept out of the sluit
covered with mud and dripping with water and hobbled off slowly down
the street, his head so near his feet that he looked as though he had
been folded in two, and his hands pressed upon what I believe is
medically known as the diaphragm. Then I also went upon my way roaring
with laughter. Often I have heard Hottentots called the lowest of
mankind, but, reflected I, they can at any rate be good friends to
those who treat them well—a fact of which I was to have further proof
ere long.
By the time I reached my house and had filled my pipe and sat myself
down in the dilapidated cane chair on the veranda, that natural
reaction set in which so often follows rejoicing at the escape from a
great danger. It was true that no one believed I had cheated them over
that thrice-accursed gold mine, but how about other matters?
I mused upon the Bible narrative of Jacob and Esau with a new and very
poignant sympathy for Esau. I wondered what would become of my Jacob.
Jacob, I mean the original, prospered exceedingly as a result of his
deal in porridge, and, as thought I, probably would his artful
descendant who so appropriately bore his name. As a matter of fact I do
not know what became of him, but bearing his talents in mind I think it
probable that, like Van Koop, under some other patronymic he has now
been rewarded with a title by the British Government. At any rate I had
eaten the porridge in the shape of worthless but dearly purchased
shares, after labouring hard at the chase of the golden calf, while
brother Jacob had got my inheritance, or rather my money. Probably he
was now counting it over in sovereigns upon the ship and sniggering as
he thought of the shareholders’ meeting with me in the chair. Well, he
was a thief and would run his road to whatever end is appointed for
thieves, so why should I bother my head more about him? As I had kept
my honour—let him take my savings.
But I had a son to support, and now what was I to do with scarcely
three hundred pounds, a good stock of guns and this little Durban
property left to me in the world? Commerce in all its shapes I
renounced once and for ever. It was too high—or too low—for me; so it
would seem that there remained to me only my old business of
professional hunting. Once again I must seek those adventures which I
had forsworn when my evil star shone so brightly over a gold mine. What
was it to be? Elephants, I supposed, since these are the only creatures
worth killing from a money point of view. But most of my old haunts had
been more or less shot out. The competition of younger professionals,
of wandering backveld Boers and even of poaching natives who had
obtained guns, was growing severe. If I went at all I should have to
travel farther afield.
Whilst I meditated thus, turning over the comparative advantages or
disadvantages of various possible hunting grounds in my mind, my
attention was caught by a kind of cough that seemed to proceed from the
farther side of a large gardenia bush. It was not a human cough, but
rather resembled that made by a certain small buck at night, probably
to signal to its mate, which of course it could not be as there were no
buck within several miles. Yet I knew it came from a human throat, for
had I not heard it before in many an hour of difficulty and danger?
“Draw near, Hans,” I said in Dutch, and instantly out of a clump of
aloes that grew in front of the pomegranate hedge, crept the withered
shape of the old Hottentot, as a big yellow snake might do. Why he
should choose this method of advance instead of that offered by the
garden path I did not know, but it was quite in accordance with his
secretive nature, inherited from a hundred generations of ancestors who
spent their lives avoiding the observation of murderous foes.
He squatted down in front of me, staring in a vacant way at the fierce
ball of the westering sun without blinking an eyelid, just as a vulture
does.
“You look to me as though you had been fighting, Hans,” I said. “The
crown of your hat is knocked out; you are splashed with mud and there
is the mark of a stick upon your left side.”
“Yes, Baas. You are right as usual, Baas. I had a quarrel with a man
about sixpence that he owed me, and knocked him over with my head,
forgetting to take my hat off first. Therefore it is spoiled, for which
I am sorry, as it was quite a new hat, not two years old. The Baas gave
it me. He bought it in a store at Utrecht when we were coming back from
Pongoland.”
“Why do you lie to me?” I asked. “You have been fighting a white man
and for more than sixpence. You knocked him into a sluit and the mud
splashed up over you.”
“Yes, Baas, that is so. Your spirit speaks truly to you of the matter.
Yet it wanders a little from the path, since I fought the white man for
less than sixpence. I fought him for love, which is nothing at all.”
“Then you are even a bigger fool than I took you for, Hans. What do you
want now?”
“I want to borrow a pound, Baas. The white man will take me before the
magistrate, and I shall be fined a pound, or fourteen days in the
_trunk_ (i.e. jail). It is true that the white man struck me first, but
the magistrate will not believe the word of a poor old Hottentot
against his, and I have no witness. He will say, ‘Hans, you were drunk
again. Hans, you are a liar and deserve to be flogged, which you will
be next time. Pay a pound and ten shillings more, which is the price of
good white justice, or go to the _trunk_ for fourteen days and make
baskets there for the great Queen to use.’ Baas, I have the price of
the justice which is ten shillings, but I want to borrow the pound for
the fine.”
“Hans, I think that just now you are better able to lend me a pound
than I am to lend one to you. My bag is empty, Hans.”
“Is it so, Baas? Well, it does not matter. If necessary I can make
baskets for the great white Queen to put her food in, for fourteen
days, or mats on which she will wipe her feet. The _trunk_ is not such
a bad place, Baas. It gives time to think of the white man’s justice
and to thank the Great One in the Sky, because the little sins one did
not do have been found out and punished, while the big sins one did do,
such as—well, never mind, Baas—have not been found out at all. Your
reverend father, the Predikant, always taught me to have a thankful
heart, Baas, and when I remember that I have only been in the _trunk_
for three months altogether who, if all were known, ought to have been
there for years, I remember his words, Baas.”
“Why should you go to the _trunk_ at all, Hans, when you are rich and
can pay a fine, even if it were a hundred pounds?”
“A month or two ago it is true I was rich, Baas, but now I am poor. I
have nothing left except ten shillings.”
“Hans,” I said severely, “you have been gambling again; you have been
drinking again. You have sold your property and your cattle to pay your
gambling debts and to buy square-face gin.”
“Yes, Baas, and for no good it seems; though it is not true that I have
been drinking. I sold the land and the cattle for £650, Baas, and with
the money I bought other things.”
“What did you buy?” I said.
He fumbled first in one pocket of his coat and then in the other, and
ultimately produced a crumpled and dirty-looking piece of paper that
resembled a bank-note. I took and examined this document and next
minute nearly fainted. It certified that Hans was the proprietor of I
know not how many debentures or shares, I forget which they were, in
the Bona Fide Gold Mine, Limited, that same company of which I was the
unlucky chairman, in consideration for which he had paid a sum of over
six hundred and fifty pounds.
“Hans,” I said feebly, “from whom did you buy this?”
“From the baas with the hooked nose, Baas. He who was named Jacob,
after the great man in the Bible of whom your father, the Predikant,
used to tell us, that one who was so slim and dressed himself up in a
goatskin and gave his brother mealie porridge when he was hungry, after
he had come in from shooting buck, Baas, and got his farm and cattle,
Baas, and then went to Heaven up a ladder, Baas.”
“And who told you to buy them, Hans?”
“Sammy, Baas, he who was your cook when we went to Pongoland, he who
hid in the mealie-pit when the slavers burned Beza-Town and came out
half cooked like a fowl from the oven. The Baas Jacob stopped at
Sammy’s hotel, Baas, and told him that unless he bought bits of paper
like this, of which he had plenty, you would be brought before the
magistrate and sent to the _trunk_, Baas. So Sammy bought some, Baas,
but not many for he had only a little money, and the Baas Jacob paid
him for all he ate and drank with other bits of paper. Then Sammy came
to me and showed me what it was my duty to do, reminding me that your
reverend father, the Predikant, had left you in my charge till one of
us dies, whether you were well or ill and whether you got better or got
worse—just like a white wife, Baas. So I sold the farm and the cattle
to a friend of the Baas Jacob’s, at a very low price, Baas, and that is
all the story.”
I heard and, to tell the honest truth, almost I wept, since the thought
of the sacrifice which this poor old Hottentot had made for my sake on
the instigation of a rogue utterly overwhelmed me.
“Hans,” I asked recovering myself, “tell me what was that new name
which the Zulu captain Mavovo gave you before he died, I mean after you
had fired Beza-Town and caught Hassan and his slavers in their own
trap?”
Hans, who had suddenly found something that interested him extremely
out at sea, perhaps because he did not wish to witness my grief, turned
round slowly and answered:
“Mavovo named me Light-in-Darkness, and by that name the Kafirs know me
now, Baas, though some of them call me Lord-of-the-Fire.”
“Then Mavovo named you well, for indeed, Hans, you shine like a light
in the darkness of my heart. I whom you think wise am but a fool, Hans,
who has been tricked by a _vernuker_, a common cheat, and he has
tricked you and Sammy as well. But as he has shown me that man can be
very vile, you have shown me that he can be very noble; and, setting
the one against the other, my spirit that was in the dust rises up once
more like a withered flower after rain. Light-in-Darkness, although if
I had ten thousand pounds I could never pay you back—since what you
have given me is more than all the gold in the world and all the land
and all the cattle—yet with honour and with love I will try to pay
you,” and I held out my hand to him.
He took it and pressed it against his wrinkled old forehead, then
answered:
“Talk no more of that, Baas, for it makes me sad, who am so happy. How
often have you forgiven me when I have done wrong? How often have you
not flogged me when I should have been flogged for being drunk and
other things—yes, even when once I stole some of your powder and sold
it to buy square-face gin, though it is true I knew it was bad powder,
not fit for you to use? Did I thank you then overmuch? Why therefore
should you thank me who have done but a little thing, not really to
help you but because, as you know, I love gambling, and was told that
this bit of paper would soon be worth much more than I gave for it. If
it had proved so, should I have given you that money? No, I should have
kept it myself and bought a bigger farm and more cattle.”
“Hans,” I said sternly, “if you lie so hard, you will certainly go to
hell, as the Predikant, my father, often told you.”
“Not if I lie for you, Baas, or if I do it doesn’t matter, except that
then we should be separated by the big kloof written of in the Book,
especially as there I should meet the Baas Jacob, as I very much want
to do for a reason of my own.”
Not wishing to pursue this somewhat unchristian line of thought, I
inquired of him why he felt happy.
“Oh! Baas,” he answered with a twinkle in his little black eyes, “can’t
you guess why? Now you have very little money left and I have none at
all. Therefore it is plain that we must go somewhere to earn money, and
I am glad of that, Baas, for I am tired of sitting on that farm out
there and growing mealies and milking cows, especially as I am too old
to marry, Baas, as you are tired of looking for gold where there isn’t
any and singing sad songs in that house of meeting yonder like you did
this afternoon. Oh! the Great Father in the skies knew what He was
about when He sent the Baas Jacob our way. He beat us for our good,
Baas, as He does always if we could only understand.”
I reflected to myself that I had not often heard the doctrine of the
Church better or more concisely put, but I only said:
“That is true, Hans, and I thank you for the lesson, the second you
have taught me to-day. But where are we to go to, Hans? Remember, it
must be elephants.”
He suggested some places; indeed he seemed to have come provided with a
list of them, and I sat silent making no comment. At length he finished
and squatted there before me, chewing a bit of tobacco I had given him,
and looking up at me interrogatively with his head on one side, for all
the world like a dilapidated and inquisitive bird.
“Hans,” I said, “do you remember a story I told you when you came to
see me a year or more ago, about a tribe called the Kendah in whose
country there is said to be a great cemetery of elephants which travel
there to die from all the land about? A country that lies somewhere to
the north-east of the lake island on which the Pongo used to dwell?”
“Yes, Baas.”
“And you said, I think, that you had never heard of such a people.”
“No, Baas, I never said anything at all. I have heard a good deal about
them.”
“Then why did you not tell me so before, you little idiot?” I asked
indignantly.
“What was the good, Baas? You were hunting gold then, not ivory. Why
should I make you unhappy, and waste my own breath by talking about
beautiful things which were far beyond the reach of either of us, far
as that sky?”
“Don’t ask fool’s questions but tell me what you know, Hans. Tell me at
once.”
“This, Baas: When we were up at Beza-Town after we came back from
killing the gorilla-god, and the Baas Stephen your friend lay sick, and
there was nothing else to do, I talked with everyone I could find worth
talking to, and they were not many, Baas. But there was one very old
woman who was not of the Mazitu race and whose husband and children
were all dead, but whom the people in the town looked up to and feared
because she was wise and made medicines out of herbs, and told
fortunes. I used to go to see her. She was quite blind, Baas, and fond
of talking with me—which shows how wise she was. I told her all about
the Pongo gorilla-god, of which already she knew something. When I had
done she said that he was as nothing compared with a certain god that
she had seen in her youth, seven tens of years ago, when she became
marriageable. I asked her for that story, and she spoke it thus:
“Far away to the north and east live a people called the Kendah, who
are ruled over by a sultan. They are a very great people and inhabit a
most fertile country. But all round their country the land is desolate
and manless, peopled only by game, for the reason that they will suffer
none to dwell there. That is why nobody knows anything about them: he
that comes across the wilderness into that land is killed and never
returns to tell of it.
“She told me also that she was born of this people, but fled because
their sultan wished to place her in his house of women, which she did
not desire. For a long while she wandered southwards, living on roots
and berries, till she came to desert land and at last, worn out, lay
down to die. Then she was found by some of the Mazitu who were on an
expedition seeking ostrich feathers for war-plumes. They gave her food
and, seeing that she was fair, brought her back to their country, where
one of them married her. But of her own land she uttered only lying
words to them because she feared that if she told the truth the gods
who guard its secrets would be avenged on her, though now when she was
near to death she dreaded them no more, since even the Kendah gods
cannot swim through the waters of death. That is all she said about her
journey because she had forgotten the rest.”
“Bother her journey, Hans. What did she say about her god and the
Kendah people?”
“This, Baas: that the Kendah have not one god but two, and not one
ruler but two. They have a good god who is a child-fetish” (here I
started) “that speaks through the mouth of an oracle who is always a
woman. If that woman dies the god does not speak until they find
another woman bearing certain marks which show that she holds the
spirit of the god. Before the woman dies she always tells the priests
in what land they are to look for her who is to come after her; but
sometimes they cannot find her and then trouble falls because ‘the
Child has lost its tongue,’ and the people become the prey of the other
god that never dies.”
“And what is that god, Hans?”
“That god, Baas, is an elephant” (here I started again), “a very bad
elephant to which human sacrifice is offered. I think, Baas, that it is
the devil wearing the shape of an elephant, at least that is what she
said. Now the sultan is a worshipper of the god that dwells in the
elephant Jana” (here I positively whistled) “and so are most of the
people, indeed all those among them who are black. For once far away in
the beginning the Kendah were two peoples, but the lighter-coloured
people who worshipped the Child came down from the north and conquered
the black people, bringing the Child with them, or so I understood her,
Baas, thousands and thousands of years ago when the world was young.
Since then they have flowed on side by side like two streams in the
same channel, never mixing, for each keeps its own colour. Only, she
said, that stream which comes from the north grows weaker and that from
the south more strong.”
“Then why does not the strong swallow up the weak?”
“Because the weak are still the pure and the wise, Baas, or so the old
vrouw declared. Because they worship the good while the others worship
the devil, and as your father the Predikant used to say, Good is the
cock which always wins the fight at the last, Baas. Yes, when he seems
to be dead he gets up again and kicks the devil in the stomach and
stands on him and crows, Baas. Also these northern folk are mighty
magicians. Through their Child-fetish they give rain and fat seasons
and keep away sickness, whereas Jana gives only evil gifts that have to
do with cruelty and war and so forth. Lastly, the priests who rule
through the Child have the secrets of wealth and ancient knowledge,
whereas the sultan and his followers have only the might of the spear.
This was the song which the old woman sang to me, Baas.”
“Why did you not tell me of these matters when we were at Beza-Town and
I could have talked with her myself, Hans?”
“For two reasons, Baas. The first was that I feared, if I told you, you
would wish to go on to find these people, whereas I was tired of
travelling and wanted to come to Natal to rest. The second was that on
the night when the old woman finished telling me her story, she was
taken sick and died, and therefore it would have been no use to bring
you to see her. So I saved it up in my head until it was wanted.
Moreover, Baas, all the Mazitu declared that old woman to be the
greatest of liars.”
“She was not altogether a liar, Hans. Hear what I have learned,” and I
told him of the magic of Harût and Marût and of the picture that I had
seemed to see of the elephant Jana and of the prayer that Harût and
Marût had made to me, to all of which he listened quite stolidly. It is
not easy to astonish a Hottentot’s brain, which often draws no accurate
dividing-line between the possible and what the modern world holds to
be impossible.
“Yes, Baas,” he said when I had finished, “then it seems that the old
woman was not such a liar after all. Baas, when shall we start after
that hoard of dead ivory, and which way will you go? By Kilwa or
through Zululand? It should be settled soon because of the seasons.”
After this we talked together for a long while, for with pockets as
empty as mine were then, the problem seemed difficult, if not
insoluble.
CHAPTER VII.
LORD RAGNALL’S STORY
That night Hans slept at my house, or rather outside of it in the
garden, or upon the stoep, saying that he feared arrest if he went to
the town, because of his quarrel with the white man. As it happened,
however, the other party concerned never stirred further in the
business, probably because he was too drunk to remember who had knocked
him into the sluit or whether he had gravitated thither by accident.
On the following morning we renewed our discussion, debating in detail
every possible method of reaching the Kendah people by help of such
means as we could command. Like that of the previous night it proved
somewhat abortive. Obviously such a long and hazardous expedition ought
to be properly financed and—where was the money? At length I came to
the conclusion that if we went at all it would be best, in the
circumstances, for Hans and myself to start alone with a Scotch cart
drawn by oxen and driven by a couple of Zulu hunters, which we could
lade with ammunition and a few necessaries.
Thus lightly equipped we might work through Zululand and thence
northward to Beza-Town, the capital of the Mazitu, where we were sure
of a welcome. After that we must take our chance. It was probable that
we should never reach the district where these Kendah were supposed to
dwell, but at least I might be able to kill some elephants in the wild
country beyond Zululand.
While we were talking I heard the gun fired which announced the arrival
of the English mail, and stepping to the end of the garden, saw the
steamer lying at anchor outside the bar. Then I went indoors to write a
few business letters which, since I had become immersed in the affairs
of that unlucky gold mine, had grown to be almost a daily task with me.
I had got through several with many groanings, for none were agreeable
in their tenor, when Hans poked his head through the window in a silent
kind of a way as a big snake might do, and said: “Baas, I think there
are two baases out on the road there who are looking for you. Very fine
baases whom I don’t know.”
“Shareholders in the Bona Fide Gold Mine,” thought I to myself, then
added as I prepared to leave through the back door: “If they come here
tell them I am not at home. Tell them I left early this morning for the
Congo River to look for the sources of the Nile.”
“Yes, Baas,” said Hans, collapsing on to the stoep.
I went out through the back door, sorrowing that I, Allan Quatermain,
should have reached a rung in the ladder of life whence I shrank from
looking any stranger in the face, for fear of what he might have to say
to me. Then suddenly my pride asserted itself. After all what was there
of which I should be ashamed? I would face these irate shareholders as
I had faced the others yesterday.
I walked round the little house to the front garden which was planted
with orange trees, and up to a big moonflower bush, I believe _datura_
is its right name, that grew near the pomegranate hedge which separated
my domain from the road. There a conversation was in progress, if so it
may be called.
“_Ikona_” (that is: “I don’t know”), “_Inkoosi_” (i.e. “Chief”), said
some Kafir in a stupid drawl.
Thereon a voice that instantly struck me as familiar, answered:
“We want to know where the great hunter lives.”
“_Ikona_,” said the Kafir.
“Can’t you remember his native name?” asked another voice which was
also familiar to me, for I never forget voices though I am unable to
place them at once.
“The great hunter, Here-come-a-zany,” said the first voice
triumphantly, and instantly there flashed back upon my mind a vision of
the splendid drawing-room at Ragnall Castle and of an imposing
majordomo introducing into it two white-robed, Arab-looking men.
“Mr. Savage, by the Heavens!” I muttered. “What in the name of goodness
is he doing here?”
“There,” said the second voice, “your black friend has bolted, and no
wonder, for who can be called by such a name? If you had done what I
told you, Savage, and hired a white guide, it would have saved us a lot
of trouble. Why will you always think that you know better than anyone
else?”
“Seemed an unnecessary expense, my lord, considering we are travelling
incog., my lord.”
“How long shall we travel ‘incog.’ if you persist in calling me my lord
at the top of your voice, Savage? There is a house beyond those trees;
go in and ask where——”
By this time I had reached the gate which I opened, remarking quietly,
“How do you do, Lord Ragnall? How do you do, Mr. Savage? I thought that
I recognized your voices on the road and came to see if I was right.
Please walk in; that is, if it is I whom you wish to visit.”
As I spoke I studied them both, and observed that while Savage looked
much the same, although slightly out of place in these strange
surroundings, the time that had passed since we met had changed Lord
Ragnall a good deal. He was still a magnificent-looking man, one of
those whom no one that had seen him would ever forget, but now his
handsome face was stamped with some new seal of suffering. I felt at
once that he had become acquainted with grief. The shadow in his dark
eyes and a certain worn expression about the mouth told me that this
was so.
“Yes, Quatermain,” he said as he took my hand, “it is you whom I have
travelled seven thousand miles to visit, and I thank God that I have
been so fortunate as to find you. I feared lest you might be dead, or
perhaps far away in the centre of Africa where I should never be able
to track you down.”
“A week later perhaps you would not have found me, Lord Ragnall,” I
answered, “but as it happens misfortune has kept me here.”
“And misfortune has brought me here, Quatermain.”
Then before I had time to answer Savage came up and we went into the
house.
“You are just in time for lunch,” I said, “and as luck will have it
there is a good rock cod and a leg of oribé buck for you to eat. Boy,
set two more places.”
“One more place, if you please, sir,” said Savage. “I should prefer to
take my food afterwards.”
“You will have to get over that in Africa,” I muttered. Still I let him
have his way, with the result that presently the strange sight was seen
of the magnificent English majordomo standing behind my chair in the
little room and handing round the square-face as though it were
champagne. It was a spectacle that excited the greatest interest in my
primitive establishment and caused Hans with some native hangers-on to
gather at the window. However, Lord Ragnall took it as a matter of
course and I thought it better not to interfere.
When we had finished we went on to the stoep to smoke, leaving Savage
to eat his dinner, and I asked Lord Ragnall where his luggage was. He
replied that he had left it at the Customs. “Then,” I said, “I will
send a native with Savage to arrange about getting it up here. If you
do not mind my rough accommodation there is a room for you, and your
man can pitch a tent in the garden.”
After some demur he accepted with gratitude, and a little later Savage
and the native were sent off with a note to a man who hired out a
mule-cart.
“Now,” I said when the gate had shut behind them, “will you tell me why
you have come to Africa?”
“Disaster,” he replied. “Disaster of the worst sort.”
“Is your wife dead, Lord Ragnall?”
“I do not know. I almost hope that she is. At any rate she is lost to
me.”
An idea leapt to my mind to the effect that she might have run away
with somebody else, a thing which often happens in the world. But
fortunately I kept it to myself and only said,
“She was nearly lost once before, was she not?”
“Yes, when you saved her. Oh! if only you had been with us, Quatermain,
this would never have happened. Listen: About eighteen months ago she
had a son, a very beautiful child. She recovered well from the business
and we were as happy as two mortals could be, for we loved each other,
Quatermain, and God has blessed us in every way; we were so happy that
I remember her telling me that our great good fortune made her feel
afraid. One day last September when I was out shooting, she drove in a
little pony cart we had, with the nurse, and the child but no man, to
call on Mrs. Scroope who also had been recently confined. She often
went out thus, for the pony was an old animal and quiet as a sheep.
“By some cursed trick of fate it chanced that when they were passing
through the little town which you may remember near Ragnall, they met a
travelling menagerie that was going to some new encampment. At the head
of the procession marched a large bull elephant, which I discovered
afterwards was an ill-tempered brute that had already killed a man and
should never have been allowed upon the roads. The sight of the pony
cart, or perhaps a red cloak which my wife was wearing, as she always
liked bright colours, for some unknown reason seems to have infuriated
this beast, which trumpeted. The pony becoming frightened wheeled round
and overturned the cart right in front of the animal, but apparently
without hurting anybody. Then”—here he paused a moment and with an
effort continued—“that devil in beast’s shape cocked its ears,
stretched out its long trunk, dragged the baby from the nurse’s arms,
whirled it round and threw it high into the air, to fall crushed upon
the kerb. It sniffed at the body of the child, feeling it over with the
tip of its trunk, as though to make sure that it was dead. Next, once
more it trumpeted triumphantly, and without attempting to harm my wife
or anybody else, walked quietly past the broken cart and continued its
journey, until outside the town it was made fast and shot.”
“What an awful story!” I said with a gasp.
“Yes, but there is worse to follow. My poor wife went off her head,
with the shock I suppose, for no physical injury could be found upon
her. She did not suffer in health or become violent, quite the reverse
indeed for her gentleness increased. She just went off her head. For
hours at a time she would sit silent and smiling, playing with the
stones of that red necklace which those conjurers gave her, or rather
counting them, as a nun might do with the beads of her rosary. At
times, however, she would talk, but always to the baby, as though it
lay before her or she were nursing it. Oh! Quatermain, it was pitiful,
pitiful!
“I did everything I could. She was seen by three of the greatest
brain-doctors in England, but none of them was able to help. The only
hope they gave was that the fit might pass off as suddenly as it had
come. They said too that a thorough change of scene would perhaps be
beneficial, and suggested Egypt; that was in October. I did not take
much to the idea, I don’t know why, and personally should not have
acceded to it had it not been for a curious circumstance. The last
consultation took place in the big drawing-room at Ragnall. When it was
over my wife remained with her mother at one end of the room while I
and the doctors talked together at the other, as I thought quite out of
her earshot. Presently, however, she called to me, saying in a
perfectly clear and natural voice:
“‘Yes, George, I will go to Egypt. I should like to go to Egypt.’ Then
she went on playing with the necklace and talking to the imaginary
child.
“Again on the following morning as I came into her room to kiss her,
she exclaimed,
“‘When do we start for Egypt? Let it be soon.’
“With these sayings the doctors were very pleased, declaring that they
showed signs of a returning interest in life and begging me not to
thwart her wish.
“So I gave way and in the end we went to Egypt together with Lady
Longden, who insisted upon accompanying us although she is a wretched
sailor. At Cairo a large dahabeeyah that I had hired in advance, manned
by an excellent crew and a guard of four soldiers, was awaiting us. In
it we started up the Nile. For a month or more all went well; also to
my delight my wife seemed now and again to show signs of returning
intelligence. Thus she took some interest in the sculptures on the
walls of the temples, about which she had been very fond of reading
when in health. I remember that only a few days before the—the
catastrophe, she pointed out one of them to me, it was of Isis and the
infant Horus, saying, ‘Look, George, the holy Mother and the holy
Child,’ and then bowed to it reverently as she might have done to an
altar. At length after passing the First Cataract and the Island of
Philæ we came to the temple of Abu Simbel, opposite to which our boat
was moored. On the following morning we explored the temple at daybreak
and saw the sun strike upon the four statues which sit at its farther
end, spending the rest of that day studying the colossal figures of
Rameses that are carved upon its face and watching some cavalcades of
Arabs mounted upon camels travelling along the banks of the Nile.
“My wife was unusually quiet that afternoon. For hour after hour she
sat still upon the deck, gazing first at the mouth of the rock-hewn
temple and the mighty figures which guard it and then at the
surrounding desert. Only once did I hear her speak and then she said,
‘Beautiful, beautiful! Now I am at home.’ We dined and as there was no
moon, went to bed rather early after listening to the Sudanese singers
as they sang one of their weird chanties.
“My wife and her mother slept together in the state cabin of the
dahabeeyah, which was at the stern of the boat. My cabin, a small one,
was on one side of this, and that of the trained nurse on the other.
The crew and the guard were forward of the saloon. A gangway was fixed
from the side to the shore and over it a sentry stood, or was supposed
to stand. During the night a Khamsin wind began to blow, though lightly
as was to be expected at this season of the year. I did not hear it
for, as a matter of fact, I slept very soundly, as it appears did
everyone else upon the dahabeeyah, including the sentry as I suspect.
“The first thing I remember was the appearance of Lady Longden just at
daybreak at the doorway of my cabin and the frightened sound of her
voice asking if Luna, that is my wife, was with me. Then it transpired
that she had left her cabin clad in a fur cloak, evidently some time
before, as the bed in which she had been lying was quite cold.
Quatermain, we searched everywhere; we searched for four days, but from
that hour to this no trace whatever of her has been found.”
“Have you any theory?” I asked.
“Yes, or at least all the experts whom we consulted have a theory. It
is that she slipped down the saloon in the dark, gained the deck and
thence fell or threw herself into the Nile, which of course would have
carried her body away. As you may have heard, the Nile is full of
bodies. I myself saw two of them during that journey. The Egyptian
police and others were so convinced that this was what had happened
that, notwithstanding the reward of a thousand pounds which I offered
for any valuable information, they could scarcely be persuaded to
continue the search.”
“You said that a wind was blowing and I understand that the shores are
sandy, so I suppose that all footprints would have been filled in?”
He nodded and I went on. “What is your own belief? Do you think she was
drowned?”
He countered my query with another of:
“What do _you_ think?”
“I? Oh! although I have no right to say so, I don’t think at all. I am
quite sure that she was _not_ drowned; that she is living at this
moment.”
“Where?”
“As to that you had better inquire of our friends, Harût and Marût,” I
answered dryly.
“What have you to go on, Quatermain? There is no clue.”
“On the contrary I hold that there are a good many clues. The whole
English part of the story in which we were concerned, and the threats
those mysterious persons uttered are the first and greatest of these
clues. The second is the fact that your hiring of the dahabeeyah
regardless of expense was known a long time before your arrival in
Egypt, for I suppose you did so in your own name, which is not exactly
that of Smith or Brown. The third is your wife’s sleep-walking
propensities, which would have made it quite easy for her to be drawn
ashore under some kind of mesmeric influence. The fourth is that you
had seen Arabs mounted on camels upon the banks of the Nile. The fifth
is the heavy sleep you say held everybody on board that particular
night, which suggests to me that your food may have been drugged. The
sixth is the apathy displayed by those employed in the search, which
suggests to me that some person or persons in authority may have been
bribed, as is common in the East, or perhaps frightened with threats of
bewitchment. The seventh is that a night was chosen when a wind blew
which would obliterate all spoor whether of men or of swiftly
travelling camels. These are enough to begin with, though doubtless if
I had time to think I could find others. You must remember too that
although the journey would be long, this country of the Kendah can
doubtless be reached from the Sudan by those who know the road, as well
as from southern or eastern Africa.”
“Then you think that my wife has been kidnapped by those villains,
Harût and Marût?”
“Of course, though villains is a strong term to apply to them. They
might be quite honest men according to their peculiar lights, as indeed
I expect they are. Remember that they serve a god or a fetish, or
rather, as they believe, a god _in_ a fetish, who to them doubtless is
a very terrible master, especially when, as I understand, that god is
threatened by a rival god.”
“Why do you say that, Quatermain?”
By way of answer I repeated to him the story which Hans said he had
heard from the old woman at Beza, the town of the Mazitu. Lord Ragnall
listened with the deepest interest, then said in an agitated voice:
“That is a very strange tale, but has it struck you, Quatermain, that
if your suppositions are correct, one of the most terrible
circumstances connected with my case is that our child should have
chanced to come to its dreadful death through the wickedness of an
elephant?”
“That curious coincidence has struck me most forcibly, Lord Ragnall. At
the same time I do not see how it can be set down as more than a
coincidence, since the elephant which slaughtered your child was
certainly not that called Jana. To suppose because there is a war
between an elephant-god and a child-god somewhere in the heart of
Africa, that therefore another elephant can be so influenced that it
kills a child in England, is to my mind out of all reason.”
That is what I said to him, as I did not wish to introduce a new horror
into an affair that was already horrible enough. But, recollecting that
these priests, Harût and Marût, believed the mother of this murdered
infant to be none other than the oracle of their worship (though how
this chanced passed my comprehension), and therefore the great enemy of
the evil elephant-god, I confess that at heart I felt afraid. If any
powers of magic, black or white or both, were mixed up with the matter
as my experiences in England seemed to suggest, who could say what
might be their exact limits? As, however, it has been demonstrated
again and again by the learned that no such thing as African magic
exists, this line of thought appeared to be too foolish to follow. So
passing it by I asked Lord Ragnall to continue.
“For over a month,” he went on, “I stopped in Egypt waiting till
emissaries who had been sent to the chiefs of various tribes in the
Sudan and elsewhere, returned with the news that nothing whatsoever had
been seen of a white woman travelling in the company of natives, nor
had they heard of any such woman being sold as a slave. Also through
the Khedive, on whom I was able to bring influence to bear by help of
the British Government, I caused many harems in Egypt to be visited,
entirely without result. After this, leaving the inquiry in the hands
of the British Consul and a firm of French lawyers, although in truth
all hope had gone, I returned to England whither I had already sent
Lady Longden, broken-hearted, for it occurred to me as possible that my
wife might have drifted or been taken thither. But here, too, there was
no trace of her or of anybody who could possibly answer to her
description. So at last I came to the conclusion that her bones must
lie somewhere at the bottom of the Nile, and gave way to despair.”
“Always a foolish thing to do,” I remarked.
“You will say so indeed when you hear the end, Quatermain. My
bereavement and the sleeplessness which it caused preyed upon me so
much, for now that the child was dead my wife was everything to me,
that, I will tell you the truth, my brain became affected and like Job
I cursed God in my heart and determined to die. Indeed I should have
died by my own hand, had it not been for Savage. I had procured the
laudanum and loaded the pistol with which I proposed to shoot myself
immediately after it was swallowed so that there might be no mistake.
One night only a couple of months or so ago, Quatermain, I sat in my
study at Ragnall, with the doors locked as I thought, writing a few
final letters before I did the deed. The last of them was just finished
about twelve when hearing a noise, I looked up and saw Savage standing
before me. I asked him angrily how he came there (I suppose he must
have had another key to one of the other doors) and what he wanted.
Ignoring the first part of the question he replied:
“‘My lord, I have been thinking over our trouble’—he was with us in
Egypt—‘I have been thinking so much that it has got a hold of my sleep.
To-night as you said you did not want me any more and I was tired, I
went to bed early and had a dream. I dreamed that we were once more in
the shrubbery, as happened some years ago, and that the little African
gent who shot like a book, was showing us the traces of those two black
men, just as he did when they tried to steal her ladyship. Then in my
dream I seemed to go back to bed and that beastly snake which we found
lying under the parcel in the road seemed to follow me. When I had got
to sleep again, all in the dream, there it was standing on its tail at
the end of the bed, hissing till it woke me. Then it spoke in good
English and not in African as might have been expected.
“‘“Savage,” it said, “get up and dress yourself and go at once and tell
his lordship to travel to Natal and find Mr. Allan Quatermain” (you may
remember that was the African gentleman’s name, my lord, which, with so
many coming and going in this great house, I had quite forgotten, until
I had the dream). “Find Mr. Allan Quatermain,” that slimy reptile went
on, opening and shutting its mouth for all the world like a Christian
making a speech, “for he will have something to tell him as to that
which has made a hole in his heart that is now filled with the seven
devils. Be quick, Savage, and don’t stop to put on your shirt or your
tie”—I have not, my lord, as you may see. “He is shut up in the study,
but you know how to get into it. If he will not listen to you let him
look round the study and he will see something which will tell him that
this is a true dream.”
“‘Then the snake vanished, seeming to wriggle down the left bottom
bed-post, and I woke up in a cold sweat, my lord, and did what it had
told me.’
“Those were his very words, Quatermain, for I wrote them down
afterwards while they were fresh in my memory, and you see here they
are in my pocket-book.
“Well, I answered him, rather brusquely I am afraid, for a crazed man
who is about to leave the world under such circumstances does not show
at his best when disturbed almost in the very act, to the edge of which
long agony has brought him. I told him that all his dream of snakes
seemed ridiculous, which obviously it was, and was about to send him
away, when it occurred to me that the suggestion it conveyed that I
should put myself in communication with you was not ridiculous in view
of the part you had already played in the story.”
“Very far from ridiculous,” I interpolated.
“To tell the truth,” went on Lord Ragnall, “I had already thought of
doing the same thing, but somehow beneath the pressure of my imminent
grief the idea was squeezed out of my mind, perhaps because you were so
far away and I did not know if I could find you even if I tried.
Pausing for a moment before I dismissed Savage, I rose from the desk at
which I was writing and began to walk up and down the room thinking
what I would do. I am not certain if you saw it when you were at
Ragnall, but it is a large room, fifty feet long or so though not very
broad. It has two fireplaces, in both of which fires were burning on
this night, and it was lit by four standing lamps besides that upon my
desk. Now between these fireplaces, in a kind of niche in the wall, and
a little in the shadow because none of the lamps was exactly opposite
to it, hung a portrait of my wife which I had caused to be painted by a
fashionable artist when first we became engaged.”
“I remember it,” I said. “Or rather, I remember its existence. I did
not see it because a curtain hung over the picture, which Savage told
me you did not wish to be looked at by anybody but yourself. At the
time I remarked to him, or rather to myself, that to veil the likeness
of a living woman in such a way seemed to me rather an ill-omened thing
to do, though why I should have thought it so I do not quite know.”
“You are quite right, Quatermain. I had that foolish fancy, a lover’s
freak, I suppose. When we married the curtain was removed although the
brass rod on which it hung was left by some oversight. On my return to
England after my loss, however, I found that I could not bear to look
upon this lifeless likeness of one who had been taken from me so
cruelly, and I caused it to be replaced. I did more. In order that it
might not be disturbed by some dusting housemaid, I myself made it fast
with three or four tin-tacks which I remember I drove through the
velvet stuff into the panelling, using a fireiron as a hammer. At the
time I thought it a good job although by accident I struck the nail of
the third finger of my left hand so hard that it came off. Look, it has
not quite finished growing again,” and he showed the finger on which
the new nail was still in process of formation.
“Well, as I walked up and down the room some impulse caused me to look
towards the picture. To my astonishment I saw that it was no longer
veiled, although to the best of my belief the curtain had been drawn
over it as lately as that afternoon; indeed I could have sworn that
this was so. I called to Savage to bring the lamp that stood upon my
table, and by its light made an examination. The curtain was drawn
back, very tidily, being fastened in its place clear of the little
alcove by means of a thin brass chain. Also along one edge of it, that
which I had nailed to the panelling, the tin-tacks were still in their
places; that is, three of them were, the fourth I found afterwards upon
the floor.
“‘She looks beautiful, doesn’t she, my lord,’ said Savage, ‘and please
God so we shall still find her somewhere in the world.’
“I did not answer him, or even remark upon the withdrawal of the
curtain, as to which indeed I never made an inquiry. I suppose that it
was done by some zealous servant while I was pretending to eat my
dinner—there were one or two new ones in the house whose names and
appearance I did not know. What impressed itself upon my mind was that
the face which I had never expected to see again on the earth, even in
a picture, was once more given to my eyes, it mattered not how. This,
in my excited state, for laudanum waiting to be swallowed and a pistol
at full cock for firing do not induce calmness in a man already almost
mad, at any rate until they have fulfilled their offices, did in truth
appear to me to be something of the nature of a sign such as that
spoken of in Savage’s idiotic dream, which I was to find if ‘I looked
round the study.’
“‘Savage,’ I said, ‘I don’t think much of your dreams about snakes that
talk to you, but I do think that it might be well to see Mr.
Quatermain. To-day is Sunday and I believe that the African mail sails
on Friday. Go to town early to-morrow and book passages.’
“Also I told him to see various gunsmiths and bid them send down a
selection of rifles and other weapons for me to choose from, as I did
not know whither we might wander in Africa, and to make further
necessary arrangements. All of these things he did, and—here we are.”
“Yes,” I answered reflectively, “here you are. What is more, here is
your luggage of which there seems to be enough for a regiment,” and I
pointed to a Scotch cart piled up with baggage and followed by a long
line of Kafirs carrying sundry packages upon their heads that,
marshalled by Savage, had halted at my gate.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE START
That evening when the baggage had been disposed of and locked up in my
little stable and arrangements were made for the delivery of some cases
containing tinned foods, etc., which had proved too heavy for the
Scotch cart, Lord Ragnall and I continued our conversation. First,
however, we unpacked the guns and checked the ammunition, of which
there was a large supply, with more to follow.
A beautiful battery they were of all sorts from elephant guns down, the
most costly and best finished that money could buy at the time. It made
me shiver to think what the bill for them must have been, while their
appearance when they were put together and stood in a long line against
the wall of my sitting-room, moved old Hans to a kind of ecstasy. For a
long while he contemplated them, patting the stocks one after the other
and giving to each a name as though they were all alive, then
exclaimed:
“With such weapons as these the Baas could kill the devil himself.
Still, let the Baas bring Intombi with him”—a favourite old rifle of
mine and a mere toy in size, that had however done me good service in
the past, as those who have read what I have written in “Marie” and
“The Holy Flower” may remember. “For, Baas, after all, the wife of
one’s youth often proves more to be trusted than the fine young ones a
man buys in his age. Also one knows all her faults, but who can say how
many there may be hidden up in new women however beautifully they are
tattooed?” and he pointed to the elaborate engraving upon the guns.
I translated this speech to Lord Ragnall. It made him laugh, at which I
was glad for up till then I had not seen him even smile. I should add
that in addition to these sporting weapons there were no fewer than
fifty military rifles of the best make, they were large-bore Sniders
that had just then been put upon the market, and with them, packed in
tin cases, a great quantity of ammunition. Although the regulations
were not so strict then as they are now, I met with a great deal of
difficulty in getting all this armament through the Customs. Lord
Ragnall however had letters from the Colonial Office to such
authorities as ruled in Natal, and on our giving a joint undertaking
that they were for defensive purposes only in unexplored territory and
not for sale, they were allowed through. Fortunate did it prove for us
in after days that this matter was arranged.
That night before we went to bed I narrated to Lord Ragnall all the
history of our search for the Holy Flower, which he seemed to find very
entertaining. Also I told him of my adventures, to me far more
terrible, as chairman of the Bona Fide Gold Mine and of their
melancholy end.
“The lesson of which is,” he remarked when I had finished, “that
because a man is master of one trade, it does not follow that he is
master of another. You are, I should judge, one of the finest shots in
the world, you are also a great hunter and explorer. But when it comes
to companies, Quatermain——! Still,” he went on, “I ought to be grateful
to that Bona Fide Gold Mine, since I gather that had it not been for it
and for your rascally friend, Mr. Jacob, I should not have found you
here.”
“No,” I answered, “it is probable that you would not, as by this time I
might have been far in the interior where a man cannot be traced and
letters do not reach him.”
Then he made a few pointed inquiries about the affairs of the mine,
noting my answers down in his pocket-book. I thought this odd but
concluded that he wished to verify my statements before entering into a
close companionship with me, since for aught he knew I might be the
largest liar in the world and a swindler to boot. So I said nothing,
even when I heard through a roundabout channel on the morrow that he
had sought an interview with the late secretary of the defunct company.
A few days later, for I may as well finish with this matter at once,
the astonishing object of these inquiries was made clear to me. One
morning I found upon my table a whole pile of correspondence, at the
sight of which I groaned, feeling sure that it must come from duns and
be connected with that infernal mine. Curiosity and a desire to face
the worst, however, led me to open the first letter which as it
happened proved to be from that very shareholder who had proposed a
vote of confidence in me at the winding-up meeting. By the time that it
was finished my eyes were swimming and really I felt quite faint. It
ran:
“HONOURED SIR,—I knew that I was putting my money on the right horse
when I said the other day that you were one of the straightest that
ever ran. Well, I have got the cheque sent me by the lawyer on your
account, being payment in full for every farthing I invested in the
Bona Fide Gold Mine, and I can only say that it is uncommonly useful,
for that business had pretty well cleaned me out. God bless you, Mr.
Quatermain.”
I opened another letter, and another, and another. They were all to the
same effect. Bewildered I went on to the stoep, where I found Hans with
an epistle in his hand which he requested me to be good enough to read.
I read it. It was from a well-known firm of local lawyers and said:
“On behalf of Allan Quatermain, Esq., we beg to enclose a draft for the
sum of £650, being the value of the interest in the Bona Fide Gold
Company, Limited (in liquidation), which stands in your name on the
books of the company. Please sign enclosed receipt and return same to
us.”
Yes, and there was the draft for £650 sterling!
I explained the matter to Hans, or rather I translated the document,
adding:
“You see you have got your money back again. But Hans, I never sent it;
I don’t know where it comes from.”
“Is it money, Baas?” asked Hans, surveying the draft with suspicion.
“It looks very much like the other bit of paper for which I paid
money.”
Again I explained, reiterating that I knew nothing of the transaction.
“Well, Baas,” he said, “if you did not send it someone did—perhaps your
father the reverend Predikant, who sees that you are in trouble and
wishes to wash your name white again. Meanwhile, Baas, please put that
bit of paper in your pocket-book and keep it for me, for otherwise I
might be tempted to buy square-face with it.”
“No,” I answered, “you can now buy your land back, or some other land,
and there will be no need for you to come with me to the country of the
Kendah.”
Hans thought a moment and then very deliberately began to tear up the
draft; indeed I was only just in time to save it from destruction.
“If the Baas is going to turn me off because of this paper,” he said,
“I will make it small and eat it.”
“You silly old fool,” I said as I possessed myself of the cheque.
Then the conversation was interrupted, for who should appear but Sammy,
my old cook, who began in his pompous language:
“The perfect rectitude of your conduct, Mr. Quatermain, moves me to the
deepest gratitude, though indeed I wish that I had put something into
the food of the knave Jacob who beguiled us all, that would have caused
him internal pangs of a severe if not of a dangerous order. My holding
in the gold mine was not extensive, but the unpaid bill of the said
Jacob and his friends——”
Here I cut him short and fled, since I saw y
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/2841