Chivalry or Villainy
From her cabin port upon the Kincaid, Jane Clayton had seen her husband
rowed to the verdure-clad shore of Jungle Island, and then the ship
once more proceeded upon its way.
For several days she saw no one other than Sven Anderssen, the
Kincaid’s taciturn and repellent cook. She asked him the name of the
shore upon which her husband had been set.
“Ay tank it blow purty soon purty hard,” replied the Swede, and that
was all that she could get out of him.
She had come to the conclusion that he spoke no other English, and so
she ceased to importune him for information; but never did she forget
to greet him pleasantly or to thank him for the hideous, nauseating
meals he brought her.
Three days from the spot where Tarzan had been marooned the Kincaid
came to anchor in the mouth of a great river, and presently Rokoff came
to Jane Clayton’s cabin.
“We have arrived, my dear,” he said, with a sickening leer. “I have
come to offer you safety, liberty, and ease. My heart has been softened
toward you in your suffering, and I would make amends as best I may.
“Your husband was a brute—you know that best who found him naked in his
native jungle, roaming wild with the savage beasts that were his
fellows. Now I am a gentleman, not only born of noble blood, but raised
gently as befits a man of quality.
“To you, dear Jane, I offer the love of a cultured man and association
with one of culture and refinement, which you must have sorely missed
in your relations with the poor ape that through your girlish
infatuation you married so thoughtlessly. I love you, Jane. You have
but to say the word and no further sorrows shall afflict you—even your
baby shall be returned to you unharmed.”
Outside the door Sven Anderssen paused with the noonday meal he had
been carrying to Lady Greystoke. Upon the end of his long, stringy neck
his little head was cocked to one side, his close-set eyes were half
closed, his ears, so expressive was his whole attitude of stealthy
eavesdropping, seemed truly to be cocked forward—even his long, yellow,
straggly moustache appeared to assume a sly droop.
As Rokoff closed his appeal, awaiting the reply he invited, the look of
surprise upon Jane Clayton’s face turned to one of disgust. She fairly
shuddered in the fellow’s face.
“I would not have been surprised, M. Rokoff,” she said, “had you
attempted to force me to submit to your evil desires, but that you
should be so fatuous as to believe that I, wife of John Clayton, would
come to you willingly, even to save my life, I should never have
imagined. I have known you for a scoundrel, M. Rokoff; but until now I
had not taken you for a fool.”
Rokoff’s eyes narrowed, and the red of mortification flushed out the
pallor of his face. He took a step toward the girl, threateningly.
“We shall see who is the fool at last,” he hissed, “when I have broken
you to my will and your plebeian Yankee stubbornness has cost you all
that you hold dear—even the life of your baby—for, by the bones of St.
Peter, I’ll forego all that I had planned for the brat and cut its
heart out before your very eyes. You’ll learn what it means to insult
Nikolas Rokoff.”
Jane Clayton turned wearily away.
“What is the use,” she said, “of expatiating upon the depths to which
your vengeful nature can sink? You cannot move me either by threats or
deeds. My baby cannot judge yet for himself, but I, his mother, can
foresee that should it have been given him to survive to man’s estate
he would willingly sacrifice his life for the honour of his mother.
Love him as I do, I would not purchase his life at such a price. Did I,
he would execrate my memory to the day of his death.”
Rokoff was now thoroughly angered because of his failure to reduce the
girl to terror. He felt only hate for her, but it had come to his
diseased mind that if he could force her to accede to his demands as
the price of her life and her child’s, the cup of his revenge would be
filled to brimming when he could flaunt the wife of Lord Greystoke in
the capitals of Europe as his mistress.
Again he stepped closer to her. His evil face was convulsed with rage
and desire. Like a wild beast he sprang upon her, and with his strong
fingers at her throat forced her backward upon the berth.
At the same instant the door of the cabin opened noisily. Rokoff leaped
to his feet, and, turning, faced the Swede cook.
Into the fellow’s usually foxy eyes had come an expression of utter
stupidity. His lower jaw drooped in vacuous harmony. He busied himself
in arranging Lady Greystoke’s meal upon the tiny table at one side of
her cabin.
The Russian glared at him.
“What do you mean,” he cried, “by entering here without permission? Get
out!”
The cook turned his watery blue eyes upon Rokoff and smiled vacuously.
“Ay tank it blow purty soon purty hard,” he said, and then he began
rearranging the few dishes upon the little table.
“Get out of here, or I’ll throw you out, you miserable blockhead!”
roared Rokoff, taking a threatening step toward the Swede.
Anderssen continued to smile foolishly in his direction, but one
ham-like paw slid stealthily to the handle of the long, slim knife that
protruded from the greasy cord supporting his soiled apron.
Rokoff saw the move and stopped short in his advance. Then he turned
toward Jane Clayton.
“I will give you until tomorrow,” he said, “to reconsider your answer
to my offer. All will be sent ashore upon one pretext or another except
you and the child, Paulvitch and myself. Then without interruption you
will be able to witness the death of the baby.”
He spoke in French that the cook might not understand the sinister
portent of his words. When he had done he banged out of the cabin
without another look at the man who had interrupted him in his sorry
work.
When he had gone, Sven Anderssen turned toward Lady Greystoke—the
idiotic expression that had masked his thoughts had fallen away, and in
its place was one of craft and cunning.
“Hay tank Ay ban a fool,” he said. “Hay ben the fool. Ay savvy Franch.”
Jane Clayton looked at him in surprise.
“You understood all that he said, then?”
Anderssen grinned.
“You bat,” he said.
“And you heard what was going on in here and came to protect me?”
“You bane good to me,” explained the Swede. “Hay treat me like darty
dog. Ay help you, lady. You yust vait—Ay help you. Ay ban Vast Coast
lots times.”
“But how can you help me, Sven,” she asked, “when all these men will be
against us?”
“Ay tank,” said Sven Anderssen, “it blow purty soon purty hard,” and
then he turned and left the cabin.
Though Jane Clayton doubted the cook’s ability to be of any material
service to her, she was nevertheless deeply grateful to him for what he
already had done. The feeling that among these enemies she had one
friend brought the first ray of comfort that had come to lighten the
burden of her miserable apprehensions throughout the long voyage of the
Kincaid.
She saw no more of Rokoff that day, nor of any other until Sven came
with her evening meal. She tried to draw him into conversation relative
to his plans to aid her, but all that she could get from him was his
stereotyped prophecy as to the future state of the wind. He seemed
suddenly to have relapsed into his wonted state of dense stupidity.
However, when he was leaving her cabin a little later with the empty
dishes he whispered very low, “Leave on your clothes an’ roll up your
blankets. Ay come back after you purty soon.”
He would have slipped from the room at once, but Jane laid her hand
upon his sleeve.
“My baby?” she asked. “I cannot go without him.”
“You do wot Ay tal you,” said Anderssen, scowling. “Ay ban halpin’ you,
so don’t you gat too fonny.”
When he had gone Jane Clayton sank down upon her berth in utter
bewilderment. What was she to do? Suspicions as to the intentions of
the Swede swarmed her brain. Might she not be infinitely worse off if
she gave herself into his power than she already was?
No, she could be no worse off in company with the devil himself than
with Nikolas Rokoff, for the devil at least bore the reputation of
being a gentleman.
She swore a dozen times that she would not leave the Kincaid without
her baby, and yet she remained clothed long past her usual hour for
retiring, and her blankets were neatly rolled and bound with stout
cord, when about midnight there came a stealthy scratching upon the
panels of her door.
Swiftly she crossed the room and drew the bolt. Softly the door swung
open to admit the muffled figure of the Swede. On one arm he carried a
bundle, evidently his blankets. His other hand was raised in a gesture
commanding silence, a grimy forefinger upon his lips.
He came quite close to her.
“Carry this,” he said. “Do not make some noise when you see it. It ban
your kid.”
Quick hands snatched the bundle from the cook, and hungry mother arms
folded the sleeping infant to her breast, while hot tears of joy ran
down her cheeks and her whole frame shook with the emotion of the
moment.
“Come!” said Anderssen. “We got no time to vaste.”
He snatched up her bundle of blankets, and outside the cabin door his
own as well. Then he led her to the ship’s side, steadied her descent
of the monkey-ladder, holding the child for her as she climbed to the
waiting boat below. A moment later he had cut the rope that held the
small boat to the steamer’s side, and, bending silently to the muffled
oars, was pulling toward the black shadows up the Ugambi River.
Anderssen rowed on as though quite sure of his ground, and when after
half an hour the moon broke through the clouds there was revealed upon
their left the mouth of a tributary running into the Ugambi. Up this
narrow channel the Swede turned the prow of the small boat.
Jane Clayton wondered if the man knew where he was bound. She did not
know that in his capacity as cook he had that day been rowed up this
very stream to a little village where he had bartered with the natives
for such provisions as they had for sale, and that he had there
arranged the details of his plan for the adventure upon which they were
now setting forth.
Even though the moon was full, the surface of the small river was quite
dark. The giant trees overhung its narrow banks, meeting in a great
arch above the centre of the river. Spanish moss dropped from the
gracefully bending limbs, and enormous creepers clambered in riotous
profusion from the ground to the loftiest branch, falling in curving
loops almost to the water’s placid breast.
Now and then the river’s surface would be suddenly broken ahead of them
by a huge crocodile, startled by the splashing of the oars, or,
snorting and blowing, a family of hippos would dive from a sandy bar to
the cool, safe depths of the bottom.
From the dense jungles upon either side came the weird night cries of
the carnivora—the maniacal voice of the hyena, the coughing grunt of
the panther, the deep and awful roar of the lion. And with them
strange, uncanny notes that the girl could not ascribe to any
particular night prowler—more terrible because of their mystery.
Huddled in the stern of the boat she sat with her baby strained close
to her bosom, and because of that little tender, helpless thing she was
happier tonight than she had been for many a sorrow-ridden day.
Even though she knew not to what fate she was going, or how soon that
fate might overtake her, still was she happy and thankful for the
moment, however brief, that she might press her baby tightly in her
arms. She could scarce wait for the coming of the day that she might
look again upon the bright face of her little, black-eyed Jack.
Again and again she tried to strain her eyes through the blackness of
the jungle night to have but a tiny peep at those beloved features, but
only the dim outline of the baby face rewarded her efforts. Then once
more she would cuddle the warm, little bundle close to her throbbing
heart.
It must have been close to three o’clock in the morning that Anderssen
brought the boat’s nose to the shore before a clearing where could be
dimly seen in the waning moonlight a cluster of native huts encircled
by a thorn boma.
At the village gate they were admitted by a native woman, the wife of
the chief whom Anderssen had paid to assist him. She took them to the
chief’s hut, but Anderssen said that they would sleep without upon the
ground, and so, her duty having been completed, she left them to their
own devices.
The Swede, after explaining in his gruff way that the huts were
doubtless filthy and vermin-ridden, spread Jane’s blankets on the
ground for her, and at a little distance unrolled his own and lay down
to sleep.
It was some time before the girl could find a comfortable position upon
the hard ground, but at last, the baby in the hollow of her arm, she
dropped asleep from utter exhaustion. When she awoke it was broad
daylight.
About her were clustered a score of curious natives—mostly men, for
among the aborigines it is the male who owns this characteristic in its
most exaggerated form. Instinctively Jane Clayton drew the baby more
closely to her, though she soon saw that the blacks were far from
intending her or the child any harm.
In fact, one of them offered her a gourd of milk—a filthy,
smoke-begrimed gourd, with the ancient rind of long-curdled milk caked
in layers within its neck; but the spirit of the giver touched her
deeply, and her face lightened for a moment with one of those almost
forgotten smiles of radiance that had helped to make her beauty famous
both in Baltimore and London.
She took the gourd in one hand, and rather than cause the giver pain
raised it to her lips, though for the life of her she could scarce
restrain the qualm of nausea that surged through her as the malodorous
thing approached her nostrils.
It was Anderssen who came to her rescue, and taking the gourd from her,
drank a portion himself, and then returned it to the native with a gift
of blue beads.
The sun was shining brightly now, and though the baby still slept, Jane
could scarce restrain her impatient desire to have at least a brief
glance at the beloved face. The natives had withdrawn at a command from
their chief, who now stood talking with Anderssen, a little apart from
her.
As she debated the wisdom of risking disturbing the child’s slumber by
lifting the blanket that now protected its face from the sun, she noted
that the cook conversed with the chief in the language of the Negro.
What a remarkable man the fellow was, indeed! She had thought him
ignorant and stupid but a short day before, and now, within the past
twenty-four hours, she had learned that he spoke not only English but
French as well, and the primitive dialect of the West Coast.
She had thought him shifty, cruel, and untrustworthy, yet in so far as
she had reason to believe he had proved himself in every way the
contrary since the day before. It scarce seemed credible that he could
be serving her from motives purely chivalrous. There must be something
deeper in his intentions and plans than he had yet disclosed.
She wondered, and when she looked at him—at his close-set, shifty eyes
and repulsive features, she shuddered, for she was convinced that no
lofty characteristics could be hid behind so foul an exterior.
As she was thinking of these things the while she debated the wisdom of
uncovering the baby’s face, there came a little grunt from the wee
bundle in her lap, and then a gurgling coo that set her heart in
raptures.
The baby was awake! Now she might feast her eyes upon him.
Quickly she snatched the blanket from before the infant’s face;
Anderssen was looking at her as she did so.
He saw her stagger to her feet, holding the baby at arm’s length from
her, her eyes glued in horror upon the little chubby face and twinkling
eyes.
Then he heard her piteous cry as her knees gave beneath her, and she
sank to the ground in a swoon.