CHAPTER II. THE YELLOW GOD.
CHAPTER III. JEEKIE TELLS A TALE.
CHAPTER IV. ALAN AND BARBARA.
CHAPTER V. BARBARA MAKES A SPEECH.
CHAPTER VI. MR. HASWELL LOSES HIS TEMPER.
CHAPTER VII. THE DIARY.
CHAPTER VIII. THE DWARF FOLK.
CHAPTER IX. THE DAWN.
CHAPTER X. BONSA TOWN.
CHAPTER XI. THE HALL OF THE DEAD.
CHAPTER XII. THE GOLD HOUSE.
CHAPTER XIII. THE FEAST OF LITTLE BONSA.
CHAPTER XIV. THE MOTHER OF JEEKIE.
CHAPTER XV. ALAN FALLS ILL.
CHAPTER XVI. WHAT THE ASIKA SHOWED ALAN.
CHAPTER XVII. THE END OF THE MUNGANA.
CHAPTER XVIII. A MEETING IN THE FOREST.
CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST OF THE ASIKI.
CHAPTER XX. THE ASIKA’S MESSAGE.
CHAPTER I.
SAHARA, LIMITED.
Sir Robert Aylward, Bart., M.P., sat in his office in the City of
London. It was a very magnificent office, quite one of the finest that
could be found within half a mile of the Mansion House. Its exterior
was built of Aberdeen granite, a material calculated to impress the
prospective investor with a comfortable sense of security. Other
stucco, or even brick-built, offices might crumble and fall in an
actual or a financial sense, but this rock-like edifice of granite,
surmounted by a life-sized statue of Justice with her scales, admired
from either corner by pleasing effigies of Commerce and of Industry,
would surely endure any shock. Earthquake could scarcely shake its
strong foundations; panic and disaster would as soon affect the Bank of
England. That at least was the impression which it had been designed to
convey, and not without success.
“There is so much in externals,” Mr. Champers-Haswell, Sir
Robert’s partner, would say in his cheerful voice. “We are all of
us influenced by them, however unconsciously. Impress the public, my
dear Aylward. Let solemnity without suggest opulence within, and the
bread, or rather the granite, which you throw upon the waters will come
back to you after many days.”
Mr. Aylward, for this conversation occurred before his merits or the
depth of his purse had been rewarded by a baronetcy, looked at his
partner in the impassive fashion for which he was famous, and answered:
“You mix your metaphors, Haswell, but if you mean that the public are
fools who must be caught by advertisement, I agree with you. Only this
particular advertisement is expensive and I do not want to wait many
days for my reward. However, £20,000 one way or the other is a small
matter, so tell that architect to do the thing in granite.”
Sir Robert Aylward sat in his own quiet room at the back of this
enduring building, a very splendid room that any Secretary of State
might have envied, but arranged in excellent taste. Its walls were
panelled with figured teak, a rich carpet made the footfall noiseless,
an antique Venus stood upon a marble pedestal in the corner, and over
the mantelpiece hung a fine portrait by Gainsborough, that of a certain
Miss Aylward, a famous beauty in her day, with whom, be it added, its
present owner could boast no connection whatsoever.
Sir Robert was seated at his ebony desk playing with a pencil, and the
light from a cheerful fire fell upon his face.
In its own way it was a remarkable face, as he appeared then in his four
and fortieth year; very pale but with a natural pallor, very well cut
and on the whole impressive. His eyes were dark, matching his black
hair and pointed beard, and his nose was straight and rather prominent.
Perhaps the mouth was his weakest feature, for there was a certain
shiftiness about it, also the lips were thick and slightly sensuous.
Sir Robert knew this, and therefore he grew a moustache to veil them
somewhat. To a careful observer the general impression given by this
face was such as is left by the sudden sight of a waxen mask. “How
strong! How lifelike!” he would have said, “but of course it isn’t
real. There may be a man behind, or there may be wood, but that’s only
a mask.” Many people of perception had felt like this about Sir Robert
Aylward, namely, that under the mask of his pale countenance dwelt a
different being whom they did not know or appreciate.
If these had seen him at this moment of the opening of our story, they
might have held that Wisdom was justified of her children. For now in
the solitude of his splendid office, of a sudden Sir Robert’s mask
seemed to fall from him. His face broke up like ice beneath a thaw. He
rose from his table and began to walk up and down the room. He talked
to himself aloud.
“Great Heavens!” he muttered, “what a game to have played,
and it will go through. I believe that it will go through.”
He stopped at the table, switched on an electric light and made a rapid
calculation on the back of a letter with a blue pencil.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s my share, a million and
seventeen thousand pounds in cash, and two million in ordinary shares
which can be worked off at a discount—let us say another seven hundred
and fifty thousand, plus what I have got already—put that at only two
hundred and fifty thousand net. Two millions in all, which of course
may or may not be added to, probably not, unless the ordinaries boom,
for I don’t mean to speculate any more. That’s the end of twenty years’
work, Robert Aylward. And to think of it, eighteen months ago, although
I seemed so rich, I was on the verge of bankruptcy—the very verge, not
worth five thousand pounds. Now what did the trick? I wonder what did
the trick?”
He walked down the room and stopped opposite the ancient marble, staring
at it—
“Not Venus, I think,” he said, with a laugh, “Venus never
made any man rich.” He turned and retraced his steps to the other end of
the room, which was veiled in shadow. Here upon a second marble pedestal
stood an object that gleamed dimly through the gloom. It was about ten
inches or a foot high, but in that place nothing more could be seen of
it, except that it was yellow and had the general appearance of a toad.
For some reason it seemed to attract Sir Robert Aylward, for he halted
to stare at it, then stretched out his hand and switched on another
lamp, in the hard brilliance of which the thing upon the pedestal
suddenly declared itself, leaping out of the darkness into light. It
was a terrible object, a monstrosity of indeterminate sex and nature,
but surmounted by a woman’s head and face of extraordinary, if devilish
loveliness, sunk back between high but grotesquely small shoulders,
like to those of a lizard, so that it glared upwards. The workmanship of
the thing was rude yet strangely powerful. Whatever there is cruel,
whatever there is devilish, whatever there is inhuman in the dark
places of the world, shone out of the jewelled eyes which were set in
that yellow female face, yellow because its substance was of gold, a
face which seemed not to belong to the embryonic legs beneath, for body
there was none, but to float above them. A hollow, life-sized mask with
two tiny frog-like legs, that was the fashion of it.
“You are an ugly brute,” muttered Sir Robert, contemplating this
effigy, “but although I believe in nothing in heaven above or earth
below, except the abysmal folly of the British public, I am bothered if
I don’t believe in you. At any rate from the day when Vernon brought
you into my office, my luck turned, and to judge from the smile on your
sweet countenance, I don’t think it is done with yet. I wonder what
those stones are in your eyes. Opals, I suppose, from the way they
change colour. They shine uncommonly to-day, I never remember them so
bright. I——”
At this moment a knock came on the door. Sir Robert turned off the lamp
and walked back to the fireplace.
“Come in,” he said, and as he spoke once more his pale face grew
impassive and expressionless.
The door opened and a clerk entered, an imposing-looking clerk with
iron-grey hair, who wore an irreproachable frock coat and patent
leather boots. Advancing to his master, he stood respectfully silent,
waiting to be addressed. For quite a long while Sir Robert looked over
his head as though he did not see him; it was a way of his. Then his
eyes rested on the man dreamily and he remarked in his cold, clear
voice:
“I don’t think I rang, Jeffreys.”
“No, Sir Robert,” answered the clerk, bowing as though he spoke to
Royalty, “but there is a little matter about that article in _The
Cynic_.”
“Press business,” said Sir Robert, lifting his eyebrows; “you
should know by this time that I do not attend to such details. See Mr.
Champers-Haswell, or Major Vernon.”
“They are both out at the moment, Sir Robert.”
“Go on, then, Jeffreys,” replied the head of the firm with a
resigned sigh, “only be brief. I am thinking.”
The clerk bowed again.
“The _Cynic_ people have just telephoned through about that article
we sent them. I think you saw it, sir, and you may remember it
begins——” and he read from a typewritten copy in his hand
which was headed “Sahara, Limited”:
“‘We are now privileged to announce that this mighty scheme which
will turn a desert into a rolling sea bearing the commerce of nations
and cause the waste places of the earth to teem with population and to
blossom like the rose, has been completed in its necessary if dull
financial details and will within a few days be submitted to investors
among whom it has already caused so much excitement. These details we
will deal with fully in succeeding articles, and therefore now need
only pause to say that the basis of capitalization strikes us as
wonderfully advantageous to the fortunate public who are asked to
participate in its vast prospective prosperity. Our present object is to
speak of its national and imperial aspects——’”
Sir Robert lifted his eyes in remonstrance:
“How much more of that exceedingly dull and commonplace puff do you
propose to read, Jeffreys?” he asked.
“No more, Sir Robert. We are paying _The Cynic_ thirty guineas to
insert this article, and the point is that they say that if they have to
put in the ‘national and imperial’ business they must have twenty
more.”
“Indeed, Jeffreys? Why?”
“Because, Sir Robert—I will tell you, as you always like to hear
the truth—their advertisement-editor is of opinion that Sahara Limited
is a national and imperial swindle. He says that he won’t drag the
nation and the empire into it in an editorial under fifty guineas.”
A faint smile flickered on Sir Robert’s face.
“Does he, indeed?” he asked. “I wonder at his moderation. Had
I been in his place I should have asked more, for really the style is a
little flamboyant. Well, we don’t want to quarrel with them just
now—feed the sharks. But surely, Jeffreys, you didn’t come to disturb
me about such a trifle?”
“Not altogether, Sir Robert. There is something more important. _The
Daily Judge_ not only declines to put any article whatsoever, but
refuses our advertisement, and states that it means to criticize the
prospectus trenchantly.”
“Ah!” said his master after a moment’s thought, “that
_is_ rather serious, since people believe in the _Judge_ even when it
is wrong. Offer them the advertisement at treble rates.”
“It has been done, sir, and they still refuse.”
Sir Robert walked to the corner of the room where the yellow object
squatted on its pedestal, and contemplated it a while, as a man often
studies one thing when he is thinking of another. It seemed to give him
an idea, for he looked over his shoulder and said:
“That will do, Jeffreys. When Major Vernon comes in, give him my
compliments and say that I should be obliged by a word or two with him.”
The clerk bowed and went as noiselessly as he had entered.
“Let’s see,” added Sir Robert to himself. “Old Jackson,
the editor of _The Judge_, was a great friend of Vernon’s father,
the late Sir William Vernon, G.C.B. I believe that he was engaged to be
married to his sister years ago, only she died or something. So the
Major ought to be able to get round him if anybody can. Only the worst
of it is I don’t altogether trust that young gentleman. It suited us to
give him a share in the business because he is an engineer who knows
the country, and this Sahara scheme was his notion, a very good one in
a way, and for other reasons. Now he shows signs of kicking over the
traces, wants to know too much, is developing a conscience, and so
forth. As though the promoters of speculative companies had any
business with consciences. Ah! here he comes.”
Sir Robert seated himself at his desk and resumed his calculations upon
a half-sheet of note-paper, and that moment a clear, hearty voice was
heard speaking to the clerks in the outer office. Then came the sound
of a strong, firm footstep, the door opened and Major Alan Vernon
appeared.
He was still quite a young man, not more than thirty-two or three years
of age, though he lacked the ultra robust and rubicund appearance which
is typical of so many Englishmen of his class at this period of life. A
heavy bout of blackwater fever acquired on service in West Africa,
which would have killed anyone of weaker constitution, had robbed his
face of its bloom and left it much sallower, if more interesting than
once it had been. For in a way there was interest about the face; also
a certain charm. It was a good and honest face with a rather eager,
rather puzzled look, that of a man who has imagination and ideas and
who searches for the truth but fails to find it. As for the charm, it
lay for the most part in the pleasant, open smile and in the frank but
rather round brown eyes overhung by a somewhat massive forehead which
projected a little, or perhaps the severe illness already alluded to had
caused the rest of the face to sink. Though thin, the man was bigly
built, with broad shoulders and well-developed limbs, measuring a
trifle under six feet in height.
Such was the outward appearance of Alan Vernon. As for his mind, it was
able enough in certain fashions, for instance those of engineering, and
the soldier-like faculties to which it had been trained; frank and
kindly also, but in other respects not quick, perhaps from its
unsuspiciousness. Alan Vernon was a man slow to discover ill and slower
still to believe in it even when it seemed to be discovered, a weakness
that may have gone far to account for his presence in the office of
those eminent and brilliant financiers, Messrs. Aylward &
Champers-Haswell. Just now he looked a little worried, like a fish out
of water, or rather a fish which has begun to suspect the quality of
the water, something in its smell or taste.
“Jeffreys tells me that you want to see me, Sir Robert,” he said in
his low and pleasant voice, looking at the baronet rather anxiously.
“Yes, my dear Vernon, I wish to ask you to do something, if you kindly
will, although it is not quite in your line. Old Jackson, the editor of
_The Judge_, is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He was a friend of my father’s, and I used to know him
slightly.”
“Well, that’s near enough. As I daresay you have heard, he is an
unreasonable old beggar, and has taken a dislike to our Sahara scheme.
Someone has set him against it and he refuses to receive
advertisements, threatens criticisms, etc. Now the opposition of _The
Judge_ or any other paper won’t kill us, and if necessary we can fight,
but at the same time it is always wise to agree with your enemy while
he is in the way, and in short—would you mind going down and explaining
his mistake to him?”
Before answering Major Vernon walked to the window leisurely and looked
out.
“I don’t like asking favours from family friends,” he replied
at length, “and, as you said, I think it isn’t quite my line.
Though of course if it has anything to do with the engineering
possibilities, I shall be most happy to see him,” he added,
brightening.
“I don’t know what it has to do with; that is what I shall be
obliged if you will find out,” answered Sir Robert with some asperity.
“One can’t divide a matter of this sort into watertight
compartments. It is true that in so important a concern each of us has
charge of his own division, but the fact remains that we are jointly
and severally responsible for the whole. I am not sure that you bear
this sufficiently in mind, my dear Vernon,” he added with slow
emphasis.
His partner moved quickly; it might almost have been said that he
shivered, though whether the movement, or the shiver, was produced by
the argument of joint and several liability or by the familiarity of
the “my dear Vernon,” remains uncertain. Perhaps it was the latter,
since although the elder man was a baronet and the younger only a
retired Major of Engineers, the gulf between them, as any one of
discernment could see, was wide. They were born, lived, and moved in
different spheres unbridged by any common element or impulse.
“I think that I do bear it in mind, especially of late, Sir
Robert,” answered Alan Vernon slowly.
His partner threw a searching glance on him, for he felt that there was
meaning in the words, but only said:
“That’s all right. My motor is outside and will take you to Fleet
Street in no time. Meanwhile you might tell them to telephone that you
are coming, and perhaps you will just look in when you get back. I
haven’t got to go to the House to-night, so shall be here till dinner
time, and so, I think, will your cousin Haswell. Muzzle that old
bulldog, Jackson, somehow. No doubt he has his price like the rest of
them, in meal or malt, and you needn’t stick at the figure. We don’t
want him hanging on our throat for the next week or two.”
Ten minutes later the splendid, two-thousand guinea motor brougham drew
up at the offices of the _Judge_ and the obsequious motor-footman bowed
Major Vernon through its rather grimy doorway. Within, a small boy in a
kind of box asked his business, and when he heard his name, said that
the “Guvnor” had sent down word that he was go up at once—third
floor, first to the right and second to the left. So up he went, and
when he reached the indicated locality was taken possession of by a
worried-looking clerk who had evidently been waiting for him, and
almost thrust through a door to find himself in a big, worn, untidy
room. At a huge desk in this room sat an elderly man, also big, worn,
and untidy-looking, who waved a long slip of galley-proof in his hand,
and was engaged in scolding a sub-editor.
“Who is that?” he said, wheeling round. “I’m busy,
can’t see anyone.”
“I beg your pardon,” answered the Major with humility, “your
people told me to come up. My name is Alan Vernon.”
“Oh! I remember. Sit down for a moment, will you, and—Mr. Thomas,
oblige me by taking away this rot and rewriting it entirely in the sense
I have outlined.”
Mr. Thomas snatched his rejected copy and vanished through another door,
whereon his chief remarked in an audible voice:
“That man is a perfect fool. Lucky I thought to look at his stuff. Well,
he is no worse than the rest, in this weary world,” and he burst into a
hearty laugh and swung his chair round, adding, “Now then, Alan, what is
it? I have a quarter of an hour at your service. Why, bless me! I was
forgetting that it’s more than a dozen years since we met; you were
still a boy then, and now you have left the army with a D.S.O. and
gratuity, and turned financier, which I think wouldn’t have pleased
your old father. Come, sit down here and let us talk.”
“I didn’t leave the army, Mr. Jackson,” answered his visitor;
“it left me; I was invalided out. They said I should never get my health
back after that last go of fever, but I did.”
“Ah! bad luck, very bad luck, just at the beginning of what should have
been a big career, for I know they thought highly of you at the War
Office, that is, if they can think. Well, you have grown into a
fine-looking fellow, like your father, very, and someone else too,” and
he sighed, running his fingers through his grizzled hair. “But you
don’t remember her; she was before your time. Now let us get to
business; there’s no time for reminiscences in this office. What is it,
Alan, for like other people I suppose that you want something?”
“It is about that Sahara flotation, Mr. Jackson,” he began rather
doubtfully.
The old editor’s face darkened. “The Sahara flotation! That
accursed——” and he ceased abruptly. “What have you, of
all people in the world, got to do with it? Oh! I remember. Someone told
me that you had gone into partnership with Aylward the company
promoter, and that little beast, Champers-Haswell, who really is the
clever one. Well, set it out, set it out.”
“It seems, Mr. Jackson, that _The Judge_ has refused not only our
article, but also the advertisement of the company. I don’t know much
about this side of the affair myself, but Sir Robert asked me if I would
come round and see if things couldn’t be arranged.”
“You mean that the man sent you to try and work on me because he knew
that I used to be intimate with your family. Well, it is a poor errand
and will have a poor end. You can’t—no one on earth can, while I sit in
this chair, not even my proprietors.”
There was silence broken at last by Alan, who remarked awkwardly:
“If that is so, I must not take up your time any longer.”
“I said that I would give you a quarter of an hour, and you have only
been here four minutes. Now, Alan Vernon, tell me as your father’s old
friend, why you have gone to herd with these gilded swine?”
There was something so earnest about the man’s question that it did not
even occur to his visitor to resent its roughness.
“Of course it is not original,” he answered, “but I had this
idea about flooding the Desert; I spent a furlough up there a few years
ago and employed my time in making some rough surveys. Then I was
obliged to leave the Service and went down to Yarleys after my father’s
death—it’s mine now, you know, but worth nothing except a shooting
rent, which just pays for the repairs. There I met Champers-Haswell,
who lives near and is a kind of distant cousin of mine—my mother was a
Champers—and happened to mention the thing to him. He took it up at
once and introduced me to Aylward, and the end of it was, that they
offered me a partnership with a small share in the business, because
they said I was just the man they wanted.”
“Just the man they wanted,” repeated the editor after him.
“Yes, the last of the Vernons, an engineer with an old name in his
county, a clean record and plenty of ability. Yes, you would be just the
man they wanted. And you accepted?”
“Yes. I was on my beam ends with nothing to do; I wanted to make some
money. You see Yarleys has been in the family for over five hundred
years, and it seemed hard to have to sell it. Also—also——” and he
paused.
“Ever meet Barbara Champers?” asked Mr. Jackson inconsequently.
“I did once. Wonderfully nice girl, and very good-looking too. But of
course you know her, and she is her uncle’s ward, and their place
isn’t far off Yarleys, you say. Must be a connection of yours also.”
Major Vernon started a little at the name and his face seemed to redden.
“Yes,” he said, “I have met her and she is a
connection.”
“Will be a big heiress one day, I think,” went on Mr. Jackson,
“unless old Haswell makes off with her money. I think Aylward knows
that; at any rate he was hanging about when I saw her.”
Vernon started again, this time very perceptibly.
“Very natural—your going into the business, I mean, under all the
circumstances,” went on Mr. Jackson. “But now, if you will take my
advice, you’ll go out of it as soon as you can.”
“Why?”
“Because, Alan Vernon, I am sure you don’t want to see your name
dragged in the dirt, any more than I do.” He fumbled in a drawer and
produced a typewritten document. “Take that,” he said, “and
study it at your leisure. It’s a sketch of the financial career of
Messrs. Aylward and Champers-Haswell, also of the companies which they
have promoted and been connected with, and what has happened to them
and to those who invested in them. A man got it out for me yesterday
and I’m going to use it. As regards this Sahara business, you think it
all right, and so it may be from an engineering point of view, but you
will never live to sail upon that sea which the British public is going
to be asked to find so many millions to make. Look here. We have only
three minutes more, so I will come to the point at once. It’s Turkish
territory, isn’t it, and putting aside everything else, the security
for the whole thing is a Firman from the Sultan?”
“Yes, Sir Robert Aylward and Haswell procured it in Constantinople. I
have seen the document.”
“Indeed, and are you well acquainted with the Sultan’s signature? I
know when they were there last autumn that potentate was very
ill——”
“You mean——” said Major Vernon, looking up.
“I mean, Alan, that I like not the security. I won’t say any more,
as there is a law of libel in this land. But _The Judge_ has certain
sources of information. It may be that no protest will be made at once,
for baksheesh can stop it for a while, but sooner or later the protest
or repudiation will come, and perhaps some international bother; also
much scandal. As to the scheme itself, it is shamelessly
over-capitalized for the benefit of the promoters—of whom, remember,
Alan, you will appear as one. Now time’s up. Perhaps you will take my
advice, and perhaps you won’t, but there it is for what it’s worth as
that of a man of the world and an old friend of your family. As for
your puff article and your prospectus, I wouldn’t put them in _The
Judge_ if you paid me a thousand pounds, which I daresay your friend,
Aylward, would be quite ready to do. Good-bye. Come and see me again
sometime, and tell me what has happened—and, I say”—this last was
shouted through the closing door,—“give my kind regards to Miss
Barbara, for wherever she happens to live, she is an honest woman.”