A little lurking secret of the blood,
A little serpent secret rankling keen.
The three men walked up towards the house together. It was a fair-sized
house, with a heavy thatched roof that overhung the walls like the crown
of a mushroom. The walls were only mud, and the thatching was nothing
else than banana leaves; but there was evidence of European taste in the
garden surrounding the structure, and in the glazed windows and wooden
door.
As they approached the open doorway three little children, clad in very
little more than their native modesty, ran gleefully out, and proceeded
to engage seats on Jack Meredith's boots, looking upon him as a mere
public conveyance. They took hardly any notice of him, but chattered and
quarrelled among themselves, sometimes in baby English, sometimes in a
dialect unknown to Oscard and Meredith.
“These,” said the latter, when they were seated, and clinging with their
little dusky arms round his legs, “are the very rummest little kids I
ever came across.”
Durnovo gave an impatient laugh, and went on towards the house. But Guy
Oscard stopped, and walked more slowly beside Meredith as he laboured
along heavy footed.
“They are the jolliest little souls imaginable,” continued Jack
Meredith. “There,” he said to them when they had reached the doorstep,
“run away to your mother--very fine ride--no! no more to-night! I'm
aweary--you understand--aweary!”
“Aweary--awe-e-e-ary!” repeated the little things, standing before him
in infantile nude rotundity, looking up with bright eyes.
“Aweary--that is it. Good night, Epaminondas--good night, Xantippe! Give
ye good hap, most stout Nestorius!”
He stooped and gravely shook hands with each one in turn, and, after
forcing a like ceremonial upon Guy Oscard, they reluctantly withdrew.
“They have not joined us, I suppose?” said Oscard, as he followed his
companion into the house.
“Not yet. They live in this place. Nestorius, I understand, takes care
of his mother, who, in her turn, takes care of this house. He is one and
a half.”
Guy Oscard seemed to have inherited the mind inquisitive from his
learned father. He asked another question later on.
“Who is that woman?” he said during dinner, with a little nod towards
the doorway, through which the object of his curiosity had passed with
some plates.
“That is the mother of the stout Nestorius,” answered Jack--“Durnovo's
housekeeper.”
He spoke quietly, looking straight in front of him; and Joseph, who was
drawing a cork at the back of the room, was watching his face.
There was a little pause, during which Durnovo drank slowly. Then Guy
Oscard spoke again.
“If she cooked the dinner,” he said, “she knows her business.”
“Yes,” answered Durnovo, “she is a good cook--if she is nothing else.”
It did not sound as if further inquiries would be welcome, and so the
subject was dropped with a silent tribute to the culinary powers of
Durnovo's housekeeper at the Msala Station.
The woman had only appeared for a moment, bringing in some dishes
for Joseph--a tall, stately woman, with great dark eyes, in which the
patience of motherhood had succeeded to the soft fire of West Indian
love and youth. She had the graceful, slow carriage of the Creole,
although her skin was darker than that of those dangerous sirens. That
Spanish blood ran in her veins could be seen by the intelligence of her
eyes; for there is an intelligence in Spanish eyes which stand apart.
In the men it seems to refer to the past or the future, for their
incorrigible leisureliness prevents the present rendering of a full
justice to their powers. In the women it belongs essentially to the
present; for there is no time like the present for love and other
things.
“They call me,” she had said to Jack Meredith, in her soft, mumbled
English, a fortnight earlier, “they call me Marie.”
The children he had named after his own phantasy, and when she had once
seen him with them there was a notable change in her manner. Her eyes
rested on him with a sort of wondering attention, and when she cooked
his meals or touched anything that was his there was something in her
attitude that denoted a special care.
Joseph called her “Missis,” with a sort of friendliness in his voice,
which never rose to badinage nor descended to familiarity.
“Seems to me, missis,” he said, on the third evening after the arrival
of the advance column, “that the guv'nor takes uncommon kindly to them
little 'uns of yours.”
They were washing up together after dinner in that part of the garden
which was used for a scullery, and Joseph was enjoying a post-prandial
pipe.
“Yes,” she said simply, following the direction of Joseph's glance. Jack
Meredith was engaged in teaching Epaminondas the intellectual game of
bowls with a rounded pebble and a beer-bottle. Nestorius, whose person
seemed more distended than usual, stood gravely by, engaged in dental
endeavours on a cork, while Xantippe joined noisily in the game. Their
lack of dress was essentially native to the country, while their mother
affected a simple European style of costume.
“And,” added Joseph, on politeness bent, “it don't surprise me. I'm
wonderfully fond of the little nig--nippers already. I am--straight.”
The truth was that the position of this grave and still comely woman was
ambiguous. Neither Joseph nor his master called her by the name she had
offered for their use. Joseph compromised by the universal and elastic
“Missis”; his master simply avoided all names.
Ambiguity is one of those intangible nothings that get into the
atmosphere and have a trick of remaining there. Marie seemed in some
subtle way to pervade the atmosphere of Msala. It would seem that Guy
Oscard, in his thick-headed way, was conscious of this mystery in the
air; for he had not been two hours in Msala before he asked “Who is that
woman?” and received the reply which has been recorded.
After dinner they passed out on to the little terrace overlooking
the river, and it was here that the great Simiacine scheme was pieced
together. It was here beneath the vast palm trees that stood like
two beacons towering over the surrounding forest, that three men
deliberately staked their own lives and the lives of others against a
fortune. Nature has a strange way of hiding her gifts. Many of the most
precious have lain unheeded for hundreds of years in barren plains, on
inaccessible mountains, or beneath the wave, while others are thrown at
the feet of savages who know no use for them.
The man who had found the Simiacine was eager, restless, full of
suspicion. To the others the scheme obviously presented itself in
a different light. Jack Meredith was dilettante, light-hearted, and
unsatisfactory. It was impossible to arouse any enthusiasm in him--to
make him take it seriously. Guy Oscard was gravely indifferent. He
wanted to get rid of a certain space of time, and the African forest,
containing as it did the only excitement that his large heart knew, was
as good a place as any. The Simiacine was, in his mind, relegated to
a distant place behind weeks of sport and adventure such as his soul
loved. He scarcely took Victor Durnovo au pied de la lettre. Perhaps he
knew too much about him for that. Certain it is that neither of the
two realised at that moment the importance of the step that they were
taking.
“You men,” said Durnovo eagerly, “don't seem to take the thing
seriously.”
“I,” answered Meredith, “intend at all events to take the profits very
seriously. When they begin to come in, J. Meredith will be at the
above address, and trusts by a careful attention to business to merit a
continuance of your kind patronage.”
Durnovo laughed somewhat nervously. Oscard did not seem to hear.
“It is all very well for you,” said the half-caste in a lower voice.
“You have not so much at stake. It is likely that the happiness of my
whole life depends upon this venture.”
A curious smile passed across Jack Meredith's face. Without turning his
head, he glanced sideways into Durnovo's face through the gloom. But he
said nothing, and it was Oscard who broke the silence by saying simply:
“The same may possibly apply to me.”
There was a little pause, during which he lighted his pipe.
“To a certain extent,” he said in emendation. “Of course, my real
object, as you no doubt know, is to get away from England until my
father's death has been forgotten. My own conscience is quite clear,
but--”
Jack Meredith drew in his legs and leant forward.
“But,” he said, interrupting, and yet not interrupting--“but the public
mind is an unclean sink. Everything that goes into it comes out tainted.
Therefore it is best only to let the public mind have the scourings, as
it were, of one's existence. If they get anything better--anything more
important--it is better to skedaddle until it has run through and been
swept away by a flow of social garbage.”
Guy Oscard grunted with his pipe between his teeth, after the manner of
the stoic American-Indian--a grunt that seemed to say, “My pale-faced
brother has spoken well; he expresses my feelings.” Then he gave further
vent to the deliberate expansiveness which was his.
“What I cannot stand,” he said, “are the nudges and the nods and the
surreptitious glances of the silly women who think that one cannot see
them looking. I hate being pointed out.”
“Together with the latest skirt-dancing girl, and the last female
society-detective, with the blushing honours of the witness-box thick
upon her,” suggested Jack Meredith.
“Yes,” muttered Guy. He turned with a sort of simple wonder, and looked
at Meredith curiously. He had never been understood so quickly before.
He had never met man or woman possessing in so marked a degree that
subtle power of going right inside the mind of another and feeling the
things that are there--the greatest power of all--the power that rules
the world; and it is only called Sympathy.
“Well,” said the voice of Durnovo through the darkness, “I don't mind
admitting that all I want is the money. I want to get out of this
confounded country; but I don't want to leave till I have made a
fortune.”
The subtle influence that Meredith wielded seemed to have reached him
too, warming into expansiveness his hot Spanish blood. His voice was
full of confidence.
“Very right and proper,” said Meredith. “Got a grudge against the
country; make the country pay for it in cash.”
“That's what I intend to do; and it shall pay heavily. Then, when I've
got the money, I'll know what to do with it. I know where to look, and I
do not think that I shall look in vain.”
Guy Oscard shuffled uneasily in his camp-chair. He had an Englishman's
horror of putting into speech those things which we all think, while
only Frenchmen and Italians say them. The Spaniards are not so bad, and
Victor Durnovo had enough of their blood in him to say no more.
It did not seem to occur to any of them that the only person whose
individuality was still veiled happened to be Jack Meredith. He alone
had said nothing, had imparted no confidence. He it was who spake first,
after a proper period of silence. He was too much of an adept to betray
haste, and thus admit his debt of mutual confidence.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that we have all the technicalities arranged
now. So far as the working of the expedition is concerned, we know our
places, and the difficulties will be met as they present themselves. But
there is one thing which I think we should set in order now. I have been
thinking about it while I have been waiting here alone.”
The glow of Victor Durnovo's cigar died away as if in his attention he
was forgetting to smoke; but he said nothing.
“It seems to me,” Jack went on, “that before we leave here we should
draw up and sign a sort of deed of partnership. Of course, we trust each
other perfectly--there is no question of that. But life is an uncertain
thing, as some earlier philosopher said before me; and one never knows
what may happen. I have drawn up a paper in triplicate. If you have a
match, I will read it to you.”
Oscard produced a match, and, striking it on his boot, sheltered it with
the hollow of his hand, while Jack read:
“We, the undersigned, hereby enter into partnership to search for and
sell, to our mutual profit, the herb known as Simiacine, the profits
to be divided into three equal portions, after the deduction of
one-hundredth part to be handed to the servant, Joseph Atkinson. Any
further expenses that may be incurred to be borne in the same proportion
as the original expense of fitting out the expedition, namely,
two-fifths to be paid by Guy Cravener Oscard, two-fifths by John
Meredith, one-fifth by Victor Durnovo.
“The sum of fifty pounds per month to be paid to Victor Durnovo,
wherewith he may pay the thirty special men taken from his estate and
headquarters at Msala to cultivate the Simiacine, and such corn and
vegetables as may be required for the sustenance of the expedition;
these men to act as porters until the plateau be reached.
“The opinion of two of the three leaders against one to be accepted
unconditionally in all questions where controversy may arise. In case of
death each of us undertakes hereby to hand over to the executors of the
dead partner or partners such moneys as shall belong to him or them.”
At this juncture there was a little pause while Guy Oscard lighted a
second match.
“And,” continued Jack, “we hereby undertake severally, on oath, to hold
the whereabouts of the Simiacine a strict secret, which secret may
not be revealed by any one of us to whomsoever it may be without the
sanction, in writing, of the other two partners.”
“There,” concluded Jack Meredith, “I am rather pleased with that
literary production: it is forcible and yet devoid of violence. I feel
that in me the commerce of the century has lost an ornament. Moreover, I
am ready to swear to the terms of the agreement.”
There was a little pause. Guy Oscard took his pipe from his mouth, and
while he knocked the ashes out against the leg of his chair he mumbled,
“I swear to hold that agreement.”
Victor Durnovo took off his hat with a sweep and a flourish, and,
raising his bared brow to the stars, he said, “I swear to hold to that
agreement. If I fail, may God strike me dead!”