I must mix myself with action lest I wither by despair.
Jocelyn had not conveyed to her brother by word or hint the accusation
brought against him by Victor Durnovo. But when he returned home it
almost seemed as if he were conscious of the knowledge that was hers.
She thought she detected a subtle difference in his manner towards
herself--something apologetic and humble. This was really the result of
Victor Durnovo's threat made in the office of the factory long before.
Maurice Gordon was not the sort of man to carry through the burden of
a half-discovered secret. It needs a special temperament for this--one
that is able to inspire fear in whomsoever it may be necessary to hold
in check--a temperament with sufficient self-reliance and strength
to play an open game steadily through to the end. Since Durnovo's
plain-spoken threat had been uttered Gordon had thought of little else,
and it was well known that Jocelyn's influence was all that prevented
him from taking hopelessly to drink. When away from her at the
sub-factories it is to be feared that he gave way to the temptation.
There is nothing so wearing as a constant suspense, a never-resting
fear; and if a man knows that both may be relieved by a slight
over-indulgence he must be a strong man indeed if he can turn aside.
Gordon betrayed himself to Jocelyn in a thousand little ways. He
consulted her wishes, deferred to her opinion, and sought her advice in
a way which never had been his hitherto; and while both were conscious
of this difference, both were alike afraid of seeking to explain it.
Jocelyn knew that her repulse of Victor Durnovo was only a temporary
advantage; the position could not remain long undecided. Victor Durnovo
would have to be met sooner or later. Each day increased the strength of
her conviction that her brother was in the power of this man. Whether
he had really allowed himself to be dragged into the horrors of even a
slight connection with the slave-trade she could not tell; but she knew
the world well enough to recognise the fact that Durnovo had only
to make the accusation for it to be believed by the million
sensation-mongers who are always on the alert for some new horror.
She knew that should Durnovo breathe a word of this in the right
quarter--that is to say, into the eager journalistic ear--there would
hardly be a civilised country in the world where Maurice Gordon of
Loango could dwell under his own name. She felt that they were all
living on a slumbering volcano. It was one of those rare cases where
human life seems no longer sacred; and this refined, educated, gentle
English lady found herself face to face with the fact that Victor
Durnovo's life would be cheap at the price of her own.
At this moment Providence, with the wisdom of which we sometimes catch
a glimpse, laid another trouble upon her shoulders. While she was half
distracted with the thought of her brother's danger, the news was put
into her hand by the grinning Nala that Jack Meredith--the man she
openly in her own heart loved--was in an even greater strait.
Here, at all events, was a peril that could be met, however heavy might
be the odds. Her own danger, the horror of Maurice's crime, the hatred
for Victor Durnovo, were all swallowed up in the sudden call to help
Jack Meredith. And Jocelyn found at least a saving excitement in working
night and day for the rescue of the man who was to be Millicent Chyne's
husband.
Maurice aided her loyally. His influence with the natives was great; his
knowledge of the country second only to Durnovo's. During the fortnight
that elapsed between the despatch of the telegram to Guy Oscard and the
arrival of that resourceful individual at Loango, the whole coast was
astir with preparation and excitement. Thus it came about that Guy
Oscard found a little army awaiting him, and to Maurice Gordon was the
credit given. Victor Durnovo simply kept out of the way. The news
that an expedition was being got together to go to the relief of Jack
Meredith never reached him in his retreat. But after a fortnight spent
in idleness in the neighbouring interior, he could stand the suspense no
longer, and came down into the town, to be pounced upon at once by Guy
Oscard.
As he stood on the beach near to Oscard, watching the embarkation of the
men, his feelings were decidedly mixed. There was an immense relief from
the anxiety of the last few weeks. He had stood on the verge of many
crimes, and had been forcibly dragged back therefrom by the strong
arm of Guy Oscard. It had been Victor Durnovo's intention not only to
abandon Jack Meredith to his certain fate, but to appropriate to his own
use the consignment of Simiacine, valued at sixty thousand pounds, which
he had brought down to the coast. The end of it all was, of course, the
possession of Jocelyn Gordon. The programme was simple; but, racked
as he was by anxiety, weakened by incipient disease, and paralysed by
chronic fear, the difficulties were too great to be overcome. To be a
thorough villain one must possess, first of all, good health; secondly,
untiring energy; and thirdly, a certain enthusiasm for wrong-doing for
its own sake. Criminals of the first standard have always loved crime.
Victor Durnovo was not like that. He only made use of crime, and had no
desire to cultivate it for its own sake. To be forcibly dragged back,
therefore, into the paths of virtue was in some ways a great relief. The
presence of Guy Oscard, also, was in itself a comfort. Durnovo felt that
no responsibility attached itself to him; he had entire faith in Oscard,
and had only to obey.
Durnovo was not a person who suffered from too delicate a
susceptibility. The shame of his present position did not affect him
deeply. Indeed, he was one of those men who have no sense of shame
before certain persons; and Guy Oscard was one of those. The position
was not in itself one to be proud of, but the half-breed accepted it
with wonderful equanimity, and presently he began to assist in the
embarkation.
It was nearly dark when the little coast steamer secured by Maurice
Gordon for the service turned her prow northward and steamed away.
“The truth is,” Durnovo took an early opportunity of saying to Oscard,
“that my nerve is no longer up to this work. I should not care to
undertake this business alone, despite my reputation on the coast. It
is a wonderful thing how closely the nerves are allied to the state of
one's health.”
“Wonderful!” acquiesced Guy Oscard, with a lack of irony which only made
the irony keener.
“I've been too long in this d----d country,” exclaimed Durnovo, “that's
the fact. I'm not the man I was.”
Guy Oscard smoked for some moments in silence; then he took his pipe
from his lips.
“The only pity is,” he said judicially, “that you ever undertook to look
for the Simiacine if you were going to funk it when the first difficulty
arose.”
Without further comment he walked away, and entered into conversation
with the captain of the steamer.
“All right,” muttered Durnovo between his teeth--“all right, my
sarcastic grand gentleman. I'll be even with you yet.”
The strange part of it was that Guy Oscard never attempted to degrade
Durnovo from his post of joint commander. This puzzled the half-breed
sorely. It may have been that Oscard knew men better than his
indifferent manner would have led the observer to believe. Durnovo's was
just one of those natures which in good hands might have been turned to
good account. Too much solitude, too much dealing with negro peoples,
and, chiefly, too long a sojourn in the demoralising atmosphere of West
Africa, had made a worse man of Victor Durnovo than Nature originally
intended. He was not wholly bad. Badness is, after all, a matter of
comparison, and, in order to draw correctly such a comparison, every
allowance must be made for a difference in standard. Victor Durnovo's
standard was not a high one; that was all. And in continuing to treat
him as an equal, and trust him as such, Guy Oscard only showed that he
was a cleverer man than the world took him to be.
In due time Msala was reached. As the canoes suitable for up-river
traffic were by no means sufficient to transport the whole of the
expeditionary force in one journey, a division was made. Durnovo took
charge of the advance column, journeying up to the camp from which the
long march through the forest was to begin, and sending back the canoes
for Oscard and the remainder of the force. With these canoes he sent
back word that the hostile tribes were within a few days' march, and
that he was fortifying his camp.
This news seemed to furnish Guy Oscard with food for considerable
thought, and after some space of time he called Marie.
She came, and, standing before him with her patient dignity of mien,
awaited his communications. She never took her eyes off the letter in
his hand. Oscard noticed the persistency of her gaze at the time, and
remembered it again afterwards.
“Marie,” he said, “I have had rather serious news from Mr. Durnovo.”
“Yes?” rather breathlessly.
“It will not be safe for you to stay at Msala--you must take the
children down to Loango.”
“Does he say that?” she asked, in her rapid, indistinct English.
“Who?”
“Vic--Mr. Durnovo.”
“No,” replied Oscard, wondering at the question.
“He does not say anything about me or the children?” persisted Marie.
“No.”
“And yet he says there is danger?”
There was a strange, angry look in her great dark eyes which Oscard did
not understand.
“He says that the tribes are within two days' march of his camp.”
She gave an unpleasant little laugh.
“He does not seem to have thought of us at Msala.”
“I suppose,” said Oscard, folding the letter and putting it in his
pocket, “that he thinks it is my duty to do what is best for Msala. That
is why I asked you to speak to me.”
Mario did not seem to be listening. She was looking over his head up the
river, in the direction from whence the message had come, and there was
a singular hopelessness in her eyes.
“I cannot leave until he tells me to,” she said doggedly.
Guy Oscard took the pipe from his lips and examined the bowl of it
attentively for a moment.
“Excuse me,” he said gently, “but I insist on your leaving with the
children to-morrow. I will send two men down with you, and will give you
a letter to Miss Gordon, who will see to your wants at Loango.”
She looked at him with a sort of wonder.
“You insist?” she said.
He raised his eyes to meet hers.
“Yes,” he answered.
She bowed her head in grave submission, and made a little movement as if
to go.
“It is chiefly on account of the children,” he added.
Quite suddenly she smiled, and seemed to check a sob in her throat.
“Yes,” said she softly, “I know.” And she went into the house.
The next morning brought further rumours of approaching danger, and
it seemed certain that this news must have filtered through Durnovo's
fortified camp further up the river. This time the report was more
definite. There were Arabs leading the tribes, and rumour further stated
that an organised descent on Msala was intended. And yet there was
no word from Durnovo--no sign to suggest that he had even thought of
securing the safety of his housekeeper and the few aged negroes in
charge of Msala. This news only strengthened Oscard's determination
to send Marie down to the coast, and he personally superintended their
departure before taking his seat in the canoe for the up-river voyage.
The men of his division had all preceded him, and no one except his own
boatmen knew that Msala was to be abandoned.
There was in Guy Oscard a dogged sense of justice which sometimes
amounted to a cruel mercilessness. When he reached the camp he
deliberately withheld from Durnovo the news that the Msala household had
left the river station. Moreover, he allowed Victor Durnovo to further
inculpate himself. He led him on to discuss the position of affairs, and
the half-breed displayed an intimate knowledge of the enemy's doings.
There was only one inference to be drawn, namely, that Victor Durnovo
had abandoned his people at Msala with the same deliberation which had
characterised his cowardly faithlessness to Jack Meredith.
Guy Oscard was a slow thinking man, although quick in action. He pieced
all these things together. The pieces did not seem to fit just then--the
construction was decidedly chaotic in its architecture. But later on the
corner-stone of knowledge propped up the edifice, and everything slipped
into its place.
Despite disquieting rumours, the expedition was allowed to depart from
the river-camp unmolested. For two days they marched through the gloomy
forest with all speed. On the third day one of the men of Durnovo's
division captured a native who had been prowling on their heels in the
line of march. Victor Durnovo sent captor and prisoner to the front of
the column, with a message to Oscard that he would come presently and
see what information was to be abstracted from the captive. At the
midday halt Durnovo accordingly joined Oscard, and the man was brought
before them. He was hardly worthy of the name, so disease-stricken, so
miserable and half-starved was he.
At first Durnovo and he did not seem to be able to get to an
understanding at all; but presently they hit upon a dialect in which
they possessed a small common knowledge.
His news was not reassuring. In dealing with numbers he rarely
condescended to the use of less than four figures, and his conception of
a distance was very vague.
“Ask him,” said Oscard, “whether he knows that there is an Englishman
with a large force on the top of a mountain far to the east.”
Durnovo translated, and the man answered with a smile. In reply to some
further question the negro launched into a detailed narrative, to which
Durnovo listened eagerly.
“He says,” said the latter to Oscard, “that the Plateau is in possession
of the Masais. It was taken two months ago. The blacks were sold as
slaves; the two Englishmen were tortured to death and their bodies
burnt.”
Oscard never moved a muscle.
“Ask him if he is quite sure about it.”
“Quite,” replied Durnovo, after questioning. “By God! Oscard; what
a pity! But I always knew it. I knew it was quite hopeless from the
first.”
He passed his brown hand nervously over his face, where the perspiration
stood in beads.
“Yes,” said Oscard slowly; “but I think we will go on all the same.”
“What!” cried Durnovo. “Go on?”
“Yes,” replied Guy Oscard; “we will go on, and if I find you trying to
desert I'll shoot you down like a rat.”