THE COMING OF THE BAAS
"The Baas--where the Baas?"
Barry Whalen turned with an angry snort to the figure in the doorway.
"Here's the sweet Krool again," he said. "Here's the faithful, loyal
offspring of the Vaal and the karoo, the bulwark of the Baas.... For
God's sake smile for once in your life!" he growled with an oath, and,
snatching up a glass of whiskey and water, threw the contents at the
half-caste.
Krool did not stir, and some of the liquid caught him in the face.
Slowly he drew out an old yellow handkerchief and wiped his cheeks, his
eyes fixed with a kind of impersonal scrutiny on Barry Whalen and the
scene before him.
The night was well forward, and an air of recklessness and dissipation
pervaded this splendid room in De Lancy Scovel's house. The air was
thick with tobacco-smoke, trays were scattered about, laden with stubs
of cigars and ashes, and empty and half-filled glasses were everywhere.
Some of the party had already gone, their gaming instinct satisfied for
the night, their pockets lighter than when they came; and the tables
where they had sat were in a state of disorder more suggestive of a
"dive" than of the house of one who lived in Grosvenor Square.
No servant came to clear away the things. It was a rule of the
establishment that at midnight the household went to bed, and the host
and his guests looked after themselves thereafter. The friends of De
Lancy Scovel called him "Cupid," because of his cherubic face, but he
was more gnome than cherub at heart. Having come into his fortune by
being a henchman to abler men than himself, he was almost over-zealous
to retain it, knowing that he could never get it again; yet he was
hospitable with the income he had to spend. He was the Beau Brummel of
that coterie which laid the foundation of prosperity on the Rand; and
his house was a marvel of order and crude elegance--save when he had
his roulette and poker parties, and then it was the shambles of
murdered niceties. Once or twice a week his friends met here; and it
was not mendaciously said that small fortunes were lost and won within
these walls "between drinks."
The critical nature of things on the Rand did not lessen the gaming or
the late hours, the theatrical entertainments and social functions at
which Al'mah or another sang at a fabulous fee; or from which a dancer
took away a pocketful of gold--partly fee. Only a few of all the group,
great and small, kept a quiet pace and cherished their nerves against
possible crisis or disaster; and these were consumed by inward anxiety,
because all the others looked to them for a lead, for policy, for the
wise act and the manoevre that would win.
Rudyard Byng was the one person who seemed equally compacted of both
elements. He was a powerful figure in the financial inner circle; but
he was one of those who frequented De Lancy Scovel's house; and he had,
in his own house, a roulette-table and a card-room like a
banqueting-hall. Wallstein, Wolff, Barry Whalen, Fleming, Hungerford,
Reuter, and the others of the inner circle he laughed at in a
good-natured way for coddling themselves, and called them--not without
some truth--valetudinarians. Indeed, the hard life of the Rand in the
early days, with the bad liqueur and the high veld air, had brought to
most of the Partners inner physical troubles of some kind; and their
general abstention was not quite voluntary moral purpose.
Of them all, except De Lancy Scovel, Rudyard was most free from any
real disease or physical weakness which could call for the care of a
doctor. With a powerful constitution, he had kept his general health
fairly, though strange fits of depression had consumed him of late, and
the old strong spring and resilience seemed going, if not gone, from
his mind and body. He was not that powerful virile animal of the day
when he caught Al'mah in his arms and carried her off the stage at
Covent Garden. He was vaguely conscious of the great change in him, and
Barry Whalen, who, with all his faults, would have gone to the gallows
for him, was ever vividly conscious of it, and helplessly resented the
change. At the time of the Jameson Raid Rudyard Byng had gripped the
situation with skill, decision, and immense resource, giving as much
help to the government of the day as to his colleagues and all British
folk on the Rand.
But another raid was nearing, a raid upon British territory this time.
The Rand would be the centre of a great war; and Rudyard Byng was not
the man he had been, in spite of his show of valour and vigour at the
Glencader Mine. Indeed, that incident had shown a certain physical
degeneracy--he had been too slow in recovering from the few bad hours
spent in the death-trap. The government at Whitehall still consulted
him, still relied upon his knowledge and his natural tact; but secret
as his conferences were with the authorities, they were not so secret
that criticism was not viciously at work. Women jealous of Jasmine,
financiers envious of Rudyard, Imperial politicians resentful of his
influence, did their best to present him in the worst light possible.
It was more than whispered that he sat too long over his wine, and that
his desire for fiery liquid at other than meal-times was not in keeping
with the English climate, but belonged to lands of drier weather and
more absorptive air.
"What damned waste!" was De Lancy Scovel's attempt at wit as Krool
dried his face and put the yellow handkerchief back into his pocket.
The others laughed idly and bethought themselves of their own glasses,
and the croupier again set the ball spinning and drew their eyes.
"Faites vos jeux!" the croupier called, monotonously, and the jingle of
coins followed.
"The Baas--where the Baas?" came again the harsh voice from the doorway.
"Gone--went an hour ago," said De Lancy Scovel, coming forward. "What
is it, Krool?"
"The Baas--"
"The Baas!" mocked Barry Whalen, swinging round again. "The Baas is
gone to find a rope to tie Oom Paul to a tree, as Oom Paul tied you at
Lichtenburg."
Slowly Krool's eyes went round the room, and then settled on Barry
Whalen's face with owl-like gravity. "What the Baas does goes good," he
said. "When the Baas ties, Alles zal recht kom."
He turned away now with impudent slowness, then suddenly twisted his
body round and made a grimace of animal-hatred at Barry Whalen, his
teeth showing like those of a wolf.
"The Baas will live long as he want," he added, "but Oom Paul will have
your heart--and plenty more," he added, malevolently, and moved into
the darkness without, closing the door behind him.
A shudder passed through the circle, for the uncanny face and the weird
utterance had the strange reality of fate. A gloom fell on the gamblers
suddenly, and they slowly drew into a group, looking half furtively at
one another.
The wheel turned on the roulette-table, the ball clattered.
"Rien ne va plus!" called the croupier; but no coins had fallen on the
green cloth, and the wheel stopped spinning for the night, as though by
common consent.
"Krool will murder you some day, Barry," said Fleming, with irritation.
"What's the sense in saying things like that to a servant?"
"How long ago did Rudyard leave?" asked De Lancy Scovel, curiously. "I
didn't see him go. He didn't say good-night to me. Did he to you--to
any of you?"
"Yes, he said to me he was going," rejoined Barry Whalen.
"And to me," said Melville, the Pole, who in the early days on the Rand
had been a caterer. His name then had been Joseph Sobieski, but this
not fitting well with the English language, he had searched the
directory of London till he found the impeachably English combination
of Clifford Melville. He had then cut his hair and put himself into the
hands of a tailor in Conduit Street, and they had turned him into--what
he was.
"Yes, Byng thed good-night to me--deah old boy," he repeated. "'I'm so
damned thleepy, and I have to be up early in the morning,' he thed to
me."
"Byng's example's good enough. I'm off," said Fleming, stretching up
his arms and yawning.
"Byng ought to get up earlier in the morning--much earlier," interposed
De Lancy Scovel, with a meaning note in his voice.
"Why?" growled out Barry Whalen.
"He'd see the Outlander early-bird after the young domestic worm," was
the slow reply.
For a moment a curious silence fell upon the group. It was as though
some one had heard what had been said--some one who ought not to have
heard.
That is exactly what had happened. Rudyard had not gone home. He had
started to do so; but, remembering that he had told Krool to come at
twelve o'clock if any cables arrived, that he might go himself to the
cable-office, if necessary, and reply, he passed from the hallway into
a little room off the card-room, where there was a sofa, and threw
himself down to rest and think. He knew that the crisis in South Africa
must come within a few hours; that Oom Paul would present an ultimatum
before the British government was ready to act; and that preparations
must be made on the morrow to meet all chances and consequences.
Preparations there had been, but conditions altered from day to day,
and what had been arranged yesterday morning required modification this
evening.
He was not heedless of his responsibilities because he was at the
gaming-table; but these were days when he could not bear to be alone.
Yet he could not find pleasure in the dinner-parties arranged by
Jasmine, though he liked to be with her--liked so much to be with her,
and yet wondered how it was he was not happy when he was beside her.
This night, however, he had especially wished to be alone with her, to
dine with her a deux, and he had been disappointed to find that she had
arranged a little dinner and a theatre-party. With a sigh he had begged
her to arrange her party without him, and, in unusual depression, he
had joined "the gang," as Jasmine called it, at De Lancy Scovel's house.
Here he moved in a kind of gloom, and had a feeling as though he were
walking among pitfalls. A dread seemed to descend upon him and deaden
his natural buoyancy. At dinner he was fitful in conversation, yet
inclined to be critical of the talk around him. Upon those who talked
excitedly of war and its consequences, with perverse spirit he fell
like a sledge-hammer, and proved their information or judgment wrong.
Then, again, he became amiable and almost sentimental in his attitude
toward them all, gripping the hands of two or three with a warmth which
more than surprised them. It was as though he was subconsciously aware
of some great impending change. It may be there whispered through the
clouded space that lies between the dwelling-house of Fate and the
place where a man's soul lives the voice of that Other Self, which
every man has, warning him of darkness, or red ruin, or a heartbreak
coming on.
However that may be, he had played a good deal during the evening, had
drunk more than enough brandy and soda, had then grown suddenly
heavy-hearted and inert. At last he had said good-night, and had fallen
asleep in the little dark room adjoining the card-room.
Was it that Other Self which is allowed to come to us as our trouble or
our doom approaches, who called sharply in his ear as De Lancy Scovel
said, "Byng ought to get up earlier in the morning--much earlier."
Rudyard wakened upon the words without stirring--just a wide opening of
the eyes and a moveless body. He listened with, as it were, a new sense
of hearing, so acute, so clear, that it was as though his friends
talked loudly in his very ears.
"He'd see the Outlander early-bird after the young domestic worm."
His heart beat so loud that it seemed his friends must hear it, in the
moment's silence following these suggestive words.
"Here, there's enough of this," said Barry Whalen, sharply, upon the
stillness. "It's nobody's business, anyhow. Let's look after ourselves,
and we'll have enough to do, or I don't know any of us."
"But it's no good pretending," said Fleming. "There isn't one of us but
'd put ourselves out a great deal for Byng. It isn't human nature to
sit still and do naught, and say naught, when things aren't going right
for him in the place where things matter most.
"Can't he see? Doesn't he see--anything?" asked a little wizened
lawyer, irritably, one who had never been married, the solicitor of
three of their great companies.
"See--of course he doesn't see. If he saw, there'd be hell--at least,"
replied Barry Whalen, scornfully.
"He's as blind as a bat," sighed Fleming.
"He got into the wrong garden and picked the wrong flower--wrong for
him," said another voice. "A passion-flower, not the flower her name
is," added De Lancy Scovel, with a reflective cynicism.
"They they there's no doubt about it--she's throwing herself away.
Ruddy isn't in it, deah old boy, so they they," interposed Clifford
Melville, alias Joseph Sobieski of Posen. "Diplomathy is all very well,
but thith kind of diplomathy is not good for the thoul." He laughed as
only one of his kidney can laugh.
Upon the laugh there came a hoarse growl of anger. Barry Whalen was
standing above Mr. Clifford Melville with rage in every fibre, threat
in every muscle.
"Shut up--curse you, Sobieski! It's for us, for any and every one, to
cut the throats of anybody that says a word against her. We've all got
to stand together. Byng forever, is our cry, and Byng's wife is
Byng--before the world. We've got to help him--got to help him, I say."
"Well, you've got to tell him first. He's got to know it first,"
interposed Fleming; "and it's not a job I'm taking on. When Byng's
asleep he takes a lot of waking, and he's asleep in this thing."
"And the world's too wide awake," remarked De Lancy Scovel, acidly.
"One way or another Byng's got to be waked. It's only him can put it
right."
No one spoke for a moment, for all saw that Barry Whalen was about to
say something important, coming forward to the table impulsively for
the purpose, when a noise from the darkened room beyond fell upon the
silence.
De Lancy Scovel heard, Fleming heard, others heard, and turned towards
the little room. Sobieski touched Barry Whalen's arm, and they all
stood waiting while a hand slowly opened wide the door of the little
room, and, white with a mastered agitation, Byng appeared.
For a moment he looked them all full in the face, yet as though he did
not see them; and then, without a word, as they stepped aside to make
way for him, he passed down the room to the outer hallway.
At the door he turned and looked at them again. Scorn, anger, pride,
impregnated with a sense of horror, were in his face. His white lips
opened to speak, but closed again, and, turning, he stepped out of
their sight.
No one followed. They knew their man.
"My God, how he hates us!" said Barry Whalen, and sank into a chair at
the table, with his head between his hands.
The cheeks of the little wizened lawyer glistened with tears, and De
Lancy Scovel threw open a window and leaned out, looking into the night
remorsefully.