for a walk. She spoke of the elephants.
“Of course, if you’ll kill elephants for father he’ll do anything you
wish,” was her way of putting it.
“But you said he was rich,” I put in lamely.
“No rich man is ever rich enough,” she remarked shortly, as if
announcing a universal truth. Probably because she felt she had been
abrupt she added: “Riches give power. But why do you object? It surely
isn’t the danger?”
“No, no,” I replied; “the contrary is nearer the truth. Modern weapons
and scientific knowledge have made killing wild animals too easy and
too safe to be exciting. Besides, I hate taking life----”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. “Why not do what is safe and easy?”
It was evidently useless to argue, so I changed the subject.
About three in the morning Abdulla woke me with the news that there
was one big solitary bull elephant as well as the herd of smaller
animals. I felt little scruple in killing an old “rogue,” and
consequently in about half-an-hour we had entered the bush preceded by
Abdulla. Tapp followed me with my ·404 Rigby, while I carried a ·450
Westley-Richards. Suddenly Abdulla stopped and showed us the footprints
of the herd; most of them were round and not more than twelve or
fourteen inches across, significantly he pointed to an oval spoor fully
twenty-one inches in length--“the big bull.”
After feeding, the old solitary had walked fast for a couple of hours,
for it was nearly six o’clock before we found warm droppings, and then,
moving cautiously, came on the bull lying down and apparently asleep,
though one huge ear was mechanically fanning the air to his trunk, so
that even in sleep he could get the scent of any intruder.
“Shoot, shoot before he wakes!” whispered Abdulla in great excitement;
but I saw that it was easy to get a better view by moving a few yards
to the left. Holding my hand up for warning I crawled round and soon
got the head quite distinctly. I had never seen such horns; but all
my attention was concentrated on the saucer-like depression in the
forehead of the great beast just between and a little lower than
the eyes. Aiming at the bottom of the depression for fear the rifle
should throw high at the short range, I fired. To my astonishment
nothing happened; nothing, save that the ear stopped moving. I saw the
bullet-hole. Was the beast dead or only stunned? Should I fire again?
The next moment Abdulla came to me: “Shoot again, quick!” I shook my
head. I wanted the credit for killing the bull with a single shot.
“He’s dead,” I said, and the event proved I was right.
Luck was favouring me persistently. I was not a good shot; yet even
Selous, who was a fine shot, had bagged many elephants before killing
one with a single bullet. And the horns of this one were very large,
weighing over one hundred and sixty pounds, and splendidly regular,
except that the tip of one had been broken off years before....
I knew about Suleiman to guess that the more he wanted my rifles the
less he would say about them; but before noon he came to ask me if I
wanted the bull’s horns, and when I said “No,” he announced a great
entertainment for that evening. “My daughter says she will be dressed
like the Paris ladies,” and he added, smiling through half-closed eyes,
“the dancers will not.”
At first Rachel did not appear; but instead a great troop of Swahilis,
mimicking an attack on a village and the carrying off of the women. The
whole thing was staged with a prodigious realism and excellently acted.
Then a dozen Hottentot girls moving to the slow melancholy beat of the
tom-toms; they were hideous I thought; short steatopygous figures of
the most extravagant proportions. I found that if a girl sat down she
could only get up by turning over on her face and rising with the help
of her hands.
Then a crowd of natives of various tribes and half-breeds danced with
the Arab professionals. It interested me to notice that some of the
natives had as fine figures as the Semites and danced as well. In
particular, one mulatto not only had an excellent figure but a bright,
vivacious face to boot, and danced as lightly as any sylph. I asked
her name and found she was called Leah and much liked by Rachel, her
mistress.
It was fascinating to watch these hundreds of half-nude girls mimicking
before one the vagaries of savage courtship, for all the dances
were in essence seductive symbols of love and desire, and Leah, for
example, had caught all the tricks of the Arabs and used them with an
astonishing artistry.
I called her over to me and could not but admire her. She was tall,
with surprisingly regular features; the skin was citron-coloured, but
soft and clear, the eyebrows pencilled and the large brown eyes were
simply startling. Looking closely I found that their beauty came from
the fact that there were golden specks in them radiating light and
warmth. Her figure was all grace, though somewhat fuller and rounder in
outline than the Arab dancer type. Leah was very quick and intelligent,
and caught the meaning of my Swahili in spite of my grotesque
blundering. While talking with her, Rachel surprised us.
Leah moved away as Rachel came to the entrance of the kraal. Her dress
was of shimmering blue and draped about as low as the European full
dress, but tightly swathed about the hips, Indian fashion. It was very
becoming and set off her fair skin and shapely figure.
“You’re late,” I said.
“I hate to see those creatures,” she replied, indicating the little
fat, crab-like Hottentots; “they seem to me caricatures of humanity.
What a pity Leah is coloured, isn’t it? If she weren’t, she’d be quite
pretty, don’t you think?”
“She is more than pretty as it is,” I said, “and has a lovely figure to
boot. I think she is lovelier than any of the dancers.”
“Really!” rejoined Rachel, a little piqued. “Perhaps you told her so.”
“No,” I rejoined; “I’m sorry, but my Swahili does not go that far.”
Rachel broke in: “Do you like my dress? Is it right at last?”
“Perfectly right,” I replied, “and extremely becoming; you are _en
beauté_ this evening.” Smiling, she made me a little curtsy for my
praise.
“I’m glad,” she began, after seating herself at my side; “every woman
likes to know she’s looking her best.” After a short pause she went on:
“You’ve covered yourself with glory again I hear, and the horns are
really fine. Won’t you tell me about the hunt?”
“There is nothing to tell,” I answered, “and I’d much rather talk of
you.”
“Let us go to my room then,” said Rachel, rising.
And now I must explain what the room was.
Almost midway between our kraals and a few hundred yards down the
grassy slope was a clump of trees with little clearing in the middle,
and here Rachel had made her pet withdrawing-room--only a roof,
leaf-covered and supported on four stout poles. Beneath its shelter a
wooden flooring raised six inches above the ground was covered with
rugs and cushions. On moonlit nights the place was nearly as light as
day, but without the moon it was ghostlike, eerie in dark glooms and
silence.
The natives all believed that the grove was spirit-haunted, and
not one of them, not even Abdulla or Leah or the Sultan himself,
would willingly come near it. With glee Rachel had told me how she
had heightened this dread by smearing phosphorus on the posts one
afternoon, and then visiting the place at night, accompanied by
Abdulla, Leah and some of the dancers. When they caught sight of the
posts they all fled shrieking, and afterwards spread such tales of what
they had seen that Rachel’s resting-place was free of spying eyes and
curious ears for ever. Hither we went that evening almost in silence.
The edge of the estrade was in the full light of the moon, and there we
seated ourselves.
“I hated to hear you praise Leah’s figure,” Rachel began; “it’s stupid
of me to say so, I know, but I just can’t help it. Why do you think
her figure the loveliest of all?”
“I don’t,” I rejoined: “I haven’t seen more than half-a-dozen. How
could I say hers was the loveliest?”
“Were her shoulders prettier than mine?” she went on earnestly.
“No, no,” I replied, after apparently weighing the question; “and your
skin,” I added slowly, “is milky white, which gives you the advantage.”
Suddenly she stood up, and in a moment, as with one gesture, unveiled
herself to the sandals.
“Is her figure prettier than mine?” she challenged.
“No, no,” I cried, seizing her in my arms, and delighted to find that
she was as firm and lithe and shapely as the prettiest of the dancers;
but the next moment she had wound herself out of my hands and, with a
quick turn, had swathed herself again in the soft Indian silk. She sat
down and I drew her to me.
“You shame me,” she said with quivering lips. The next minute she added
hotly: “I’m a fool,” shaking off the emotion in proud revolt.
I soon comforted her, however, and my enthusiastic warm praise quickly
brought her back to her usual good humour; indeed I think the little
fever fit did her good, shook her out of her habitual mutism. She
became really affectionate and prodigal of caresses, and for the first
and only time showed pretty fancies.
“Do you know why I was so jealous and am now so happy?” she asked with
shining eyes. “Because I dreamed of you last night, and the first man a
girl dreams of will meet her soul when on its way to the Judgment!”
“Is that a Moslem belief?” I asked in wonder.
“Do you like it?” she countered.
“It’s charming,” I exclaimed, “quite charming; but I never heard it
before.”
“The tribe I come from, near Fez,” she went on, “believes, too, that
all a man’s good deeds turn into a lovely girl, who meets his spirit to
give it courage and hope in the dread hour. The better man he has been,
the lovelier the angel. The woman’s lot is different. You find an ideal
of beauty, whereas if we have been good, it is the first man to whom we
give ourselves, even in desire, who appears to comfort us on the dark
way.”
“I thought that in Mohammed’s teaching,” I exclaimed, “no woman entered
Paradise----”
“How awful!” she broke in; “you are all wrong, wrong. Ayesha, the
Prophet’s wife, is highest among the holy, and Zahra Fatimah, his
daughter, sits by his feet in heaven. Think, even after bearing two
sons she was called the Virgin. Everyone knows that. Every Moslem
believes It.” I was amused by her earnestness and delighted with the
pretty imaginings. It was the first touch of poetry I had found in this
child of nature, and it really gave my liking for her a fervour of
spiritual intensity entirely lacking before. And this deeper feeling
made me bold, and I took her on my knees and began kissing her with
glowing lips and praising her.
“You are lovely, lovely,” I whispered; “but why didn’t you let me see
you longer and imprint your beauty on my heart?”
“Hush,” she said prettily, putting her hand on my mouth, “and tell me
why you love beauty so excessively. We women don’t.”
“One of our poets, named Spenser,” I responded, “has given the true
reason.” I repeated to her the lines:
“And every spirit, as it is more pure,
And hath in it the more of Heavenly Light,
Lo! it the fairer body doth procure
To habit in----”
“It isn’t true,” she interrupted. “I know a---- If it only was true,
what a wonderful world it would be. Oh!”
I had stirred her at length, and she kissed me now as I kissed her; but
soon she pouted and restrained me, and in my vexation I quoted another
couplet to her, wondering whether she would understand it fully:
“She partly is to blame, who has been tried,
He comes too near who comes to be denied.”
But that sort of wisdom is within the ken of every girl, and she just
shook her head.
“To put off is not to deny,” she pouted, and I kissed her for the
word; but when I sought to detain her, she said simply:
“Lady Moon is going to bed. My father will wonder; and surprise and
suspicion are of kin, you know,” she added, “and just now I don’t want
to vex him.
“My father’s beginning to think you’re a wizard or magician,” she went
on, smiling, “for your shooting surprised everyone. He told me to-day
that he liked you; he is willing to have you as a son-in-law.”
She said it quite casually, as if the whole thing were fixed and
arranged. I was more than astonished. I had flirted a little,
kissed and paid compliments as one does to a pretty girl; but
matrimony--straight off--without more ado--I was not prepared for it. I
grasped at the first straw of excuse to gain time.
“Marriage,” I cried, “is a costly business, and I’m a poor man--very
poor.”
“Father’ll make that all right,” she replied; “he’s rich enough for
anything.”
“But I mustn’t take your father’s money,” I replied. “I don’t like
being a parasite.”
“What matter who has got it,” she remarked, with a superb indifference,
“so long as we can have all we need. Kiss me and don’t talk nonsense.”
I did as I was told, but the curious command in her word and voice
stirred me to revolt. I can’t explain why, but I began to look at
Rachel critically from that moment.
She was certainly pretty, and the face with its ivory skin, candid
blue eyes and rounded chin, had no suspicion of hardness; but the
imperiousness in the girl was extraordinary. Perhaps I resented it so
strongly because I had always been used to taking the lead myself.
Suddenly as she moved the moonlight fell on her chest in ivory radiance
and showed up a dozen or so small, curling, black hairs. It was the
first time I had ever seen hairs on a girl’s breast. I don’t know why,
but at once a suggestion of negroid or Indian intermixture came into my
mind and my critical observation became depreciatory.
When she reached the kraal, ten minutes later, Rachel clapped her hands
for a servant; she wanted to know where the Sultan was, and when told
he would be back soon, she wished to prepare his _chibouque_.
I noticed now that she was short; in ten years she would be stout; she
was just an ordinary pretty girl with a domineering character. As she
resumed her seat she began to hum Mimi’s song from _La Bohême_: “Mi
chiamano, Mimi.”
Involuntarily I shrugged impatient shoulders. Interminable evenings
of boredom intensified by badly hummed music came over me in a wave.
Rachel had no gift of conversation, knew no literary language, took no
interest in the best that was thought or known in the world. Nine hours
out of ten she was uninteresting. In the tenth, however, she showed
rare qualities.
Ever since the word marriage had been spoken she let herself go and
she showed me her real nature. She was curiously passionate and even
magnetic; she seemed to know all the ways of love by intuition, and her
heat was contagious. At the same time she was reticent in speech to an
extraordinary extent and would give no account in words of her feelings
or sensations.
“Why talk of it?” she used to say when I questioned her, and with a
_mon petit homme_ she would close my lips with a kiss. She was always
eager to talk French and to learn French phrases. Paris was her Mecca.
Now, telling love’s secrets is half the joy of intimacy, and her
persistent silence at first annoyed and then exasperated me. I think
she might have won me had she given up her mutism or even tried to
relax her rule and please me now and then by a frank confession.
But her imperiousness was the very soul of her. She was not only
unwilling to constrain herself in any way, but apparently incapable
of understanding any desire but her own, and absolute reticence was
natural to her.
She didn’t even recall the past, as lovers are accustomed to do, and
retrace the flowered steps by which love came to his dominion. If I
told her how I first discovered this, that or the other trait in her
she would listen, it is true; but never respond in like manner. She was
as dominant as an empress, and through her I realised that small and
ill-furnished minds and hearts can be even more despotic than great and
rich natures.
Bit by bit I turned against her, and as my affection died out I set
myself to master my desire. After all, the body is easier to subdue
than the heart. “I am not going to marry Rachel”: that was a definite
irrevocable decision, and when I returned to the present I found her
still humming the intolerable hackneyed tune, as if to confirm my
resolution.
Next morning, when dressing, I asked Tapp how he was getting on with
his courtship. “Like a house on fire, sir,” was his frank avowal. “They
don’t let the grass grow under their feet, these Arab girls.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Leah says we’ll be married when you marry Rachel,” he explained.
“Leah is very pretty,” I remarked, “and dances wonderfully. Are you in
love with her, Tapp?”
“In love,” he repeated. “Every man’s in love with a pretty girl when
she makes up to him. Leah is very clever.”
“Do you want to marry her?” I probed.
“Does a man ever want to be tied?” Tapp countered, with a grin.
“Well, if you wait till I’m married,” I concluded, “you’ll wait some
time.”
“Miss Rachel means business, sir,” warned Tapp seriously. “She has sent
to Mombasa for her wedding dress, veil and orange blossoms.”
“Good God!” I cried, “who put it into her head that a veil and orange
blossoms were necessary?”
“Me, sir,” replied Tapp unblushingly. “I thought you might want a
little time, so I mentioned the orange blossoms casual like. You ought
to take care, sir,” he went on; “that Abdulla is crazy after Miss
Rachel, and before you came along he had a good chance, Leah tells me.”
The idea of Abdulla as a rival killed my affection. I looked on him as
an inferior, as a mere servant. Had there been passages between them? I
must find out. “I wonder,” I began, “if Leah would tell you how far the
courtship had gone?”
“Sure,” replied Tapp unhesitatingly, “me and her, sir, is that thick
she’d deny me nothing. Leah is a good sort,” he added; “and beautifully
made, sir, isn’t she? A perfect picture, but I don’t care for ’em so
dark myself.”
“Find out what you can, Tapp,” I concluded, “and let me know if we can
get away without trouble. I don’t mean marrying, that’s certain.”
“There’ll be bad trouble,” said Tapp, “when Miss Rachel finds that
out; but we needn’t cross the stream till we come to it. When will the
automatics reach Mombasa, sir?”
“How did you know about the pistols?” I asked.
“The Sultan tells everything to Abdulla and Rachel, and she and Leah
are like sisters; they’re always talking. She asks Leah whatever she
wants to know; Leah is a sort of help to her. Suleiman meant having all
our pistols when he brought us up here, only you promised him more, and
now he’s half frightened of your rifles; they all think there’s magic
in ’em. They’re a honeducated lot.”
“Well, keep your eyes and ears open,” I counselled, “and let me know if
anything important happens. I’m not afraid of Suleiman, but we don’t
want to fight if we can get away peaceably.”
“We could get away all right,” rejoined Tapp, “and with our guard too,
by all going on some hunting expedition; but how to get the carriers
and baggage and rifles out of the Sultan’s clutches will be a job,
especially if Miss Rachel is against us.”
“Do your best with Abdulla,” I replied. “I might arrange with the
Sultan to go to the coast for his guns with Abdulla and bring back my
marriage licence.”
“That might work,” cried Tapp. “Abdulla will help, I’m sure. Leah says
he would have tried to kill you long ago, only he fears your magic.
No one ever killed an elephant before with a single shot; that’s
frightened them all. Even the girls put out a finger when you come
near, Leah tells me--afraid of your devil.
“But are you sure, sir, you don’t want Rachel? She’s very pretty.”
“Prettiness alone soon loses its appeal,” was my reply.
“That’s it, sir,” cried Tapp; “these girls are all right for a week or
a month, but I likes ’em more refined if I have to live with ’em.” He
had said it in his way.
From this time on I began to think what pretext I could devise to get
away. I was not anxious, for, after all, European wits, I knew, are
better than African.
A little later Suleiman drew me aside to consult when the marriage
should take place; the dresses could be delivered in a month. Would
some date a couple of months ahead suit me?
“The truth is,” I replied, “I haven’t money enough to keep myself, let
alone a wife.”
“Leave that to me,” said the Sultan. “Rachel will not go to her husband
empty handed.”
I felt I was on the wrong track. “Besides,” I added, “I shall have to
go to Mombasa too.”
“Why?” he interrupted.
“To get a licence,” I rejoined lamely; and then, as I saw I had made no
impression, a brilliant idea occurred to me. “A consular officer, you
know, must be present as a witness, or there is no marriage in England
or France or any civilised country. I must get a consular officer as
‘witness,’ and a licence, or Rachel would not be accepted anywhere as
my wife. Why, I haven’t even a Prayer Book,” I cried, as if shocked.
His eyes narrowed and the wrinkles all showed; but the suspicion or
apprehension of the unexpected was only lulled, not stilled. I set
my wits to work, and then remarked casually but seriously: “I think,
too, you should have at least a dozen modern rifles. I had no idea
how bad your guns are, or I’d have ordered for you rifles like mine
instead of automatic pistols. Abdulla says you never kill buffalo,
let alone elephant, with a single shot, and you’ve seen that I always
do. It’s the rifle does it. With a dozen rifles like mine in the hands
of men like Abdulla and yourself you would be invincible for the next
twenty-five years.”
I had won. I saw it in his eyes and manner. “If you’ll do that,” he
exclaimed, “I’ll do more for you even than I promised Rachel. I’ll send
a slave-gang, not of five hundred, but of one thousand, with you to
the coast, and sixty thousand pounds of ivory is a fortune, you know,”
he remarked regretfully, not a thought in his head of the poor human
beasts of burden carrying each sixty pounds of ivory, besides yoke and
food and scanty belongings, through that awful tropical candescence.
His inhumanity confirmed me in my purpose. Bad men make us worse, just
as good ones make us better.
I had won if Rachel could be fooled as easily.
Of course I saw Tapp and talked it over with him.
“Beat it into Leah’s head that a consular officer as ‘best man’ is
necessary,” I said, and made him repeat the phrase “best man” over and
over again.
“Abdulla is keen to get you away from Rachel,” Tapp responded. “He let
out to Leah the other night that she hasn’t kissed him once since you
came, and that he was really resolved to murder you when Leah put it
into his head to get you away instead. We’ll have no difficulty with
him, sir.”
“Did he really say Rachel used to kiss him?” I asked, jealousy
stabbing me with the memory of her wonderful kisses.
“Sure,” replied Tapp unhesitatingly. “Leah says they were as loving as
we are, and if that’s true, Miss Rachel didn’t deny him much.”
“That’s how she learned the magic of her caressing,” I said to myself.
“She practised with Abdulla--perhaps that’s the reason, too, of her
mutism,” I went on infuriating myself. “He couldn’t have been very
articulate.”
Jealousy is the only passion that feeds on itself and grows rank on its
own maleficence. As soon as I became calmer I recognised that Rachel’s
silence was more wilful than any man’s could be, and more obstinate; it
was native in her, invincible.
That evening, or a little later, I was with Rachel again. She sought
now naturally to be alone with me on all occasions, and so we went
straight to her “room.” Usually she turned to me with burning lips, but
the evening after I had made my proposal she was astonishingly cool.
She wished to understand the whole position, and I let her talk and
draw me out, knowing that the conclusions thus reached would be more
effective than anything I could say. It is well to let small secretive
natures persuade themselves in their own way; then they are immovable
in their mistakes.
She probed skilfully, and I answered as if I were reluctant to go,
reluctant to leave her. “I want to kiss you,” I broke off, but when I
kissed her I found her totally unresponsive; she evidently was intent
on making sure first that it was necessary for me to go, and then that
I was sure to return.
“Is a licence and ‘best man’ necessary?” she asked.
“Who told you of a ‘best man’?” I questioned, with feigned surprise.
“Never you mind,” she replied. “I know a great deal more than you
think,” she added; and I immediately thought of her relations with
Abdulla.