[Illustration]
The People Of The Mist
by H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1894.
DEDICATION
I DEDICATE THIS EFFORT OF
“PRIMEVAL AND TROGLODYTE IMAGINATION"
THIS RECORD OF BAREFACED AND FLAGRANT ADVENTURE
TO MY GODSONS
IN THE HOPE THAT THEREIN THEY MAY FIND
SOME STORE OF HEALTHY AMUSEMENT.
_Ditchingham_, 1894.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I. THE SINS OF THE FATHER ARE VISITED ON THE CHILDREN
II. THE SINS OF THE FATHER ARE VISITED ON THE CHILDREN
III. AFTER SEVEN YEARS
IV. THE LAST VIGIL
V. OTTER GIVES COUNSEL
VI. THE TALE OF SOA
VII. LEONARD SWEARS ON THE BLOOD OF ACA
VIII. THE START
IX. THE YELLOW DEVIL’S NEST
X. LEONARD MAKES A PLAN
XI. THAT HERO OTTER
XII. A CHOICE LOT
XIII. A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE
XIV. VENGEANCE
XV. DISILLUSION
XVI. MISUNDERSTANDINGS
XVII. THE DEATH OF MAVOOM
XVIII. SOA SHOWS HER TEETH
XIX. THE END OF THE JOURNEY
XX. THE COMING OF ACA
XXI. THE FOLLY OF OTTER
XXII. THE TEMPLE OF JÂL
XXIII. HOW JUANNA CONQUERED NAM
XXIV. OLFAN TELLS OF THE RUBIES
XXV. THE SACRIFICE AFTER THE NEW ORDER
XXVI. THE LAST OF THE SETTLEMENT MEN
XXVII. ATHER AND DAUGHTER
XXVIII. JUANNA PREVARICATES
XXIX. THE TRIAL OF THE GODS
XXX. FRANCISCO’S EXPIATION
XXXI. THE WHITE DAWN
XXXII. HOW OTTER FOUGHT THE WATER DWELLER
XXXIII. TRAPPED
XXXIV. NAM’S LAST ARGUMENT
XXXV. BE NOBLE OR BE BASE
XXXVI. HOW OTTER CAME BACK
XXXVII. “I AM REPAID, QUEEN”
XXXVIII. THE TRIUMPH OF NAM
XXXIX. THE PASSING OF THE BRIDGE
XL. OTTER’S FAREWELL
ENVOI THE END OF THE ADVENTURE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On several previous occasions it has happened to this writer of romance
to be justified of his romances by facts of startling similarity,
subsequently brought to light and to his knowledge. In this tale occurs
an instance of the sort, a “double-barrelled” instance indeed, that to
him seems sufficiently curious to be worthy of telling. The People of
the Mist of his adventure story worship a sacred crocodile to which
they make sacrifice, but in the original draft of the book this
crocodile was a snake—_monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens_. A friend
of the writer, an African explorer of great experience who read that
draft, suggested that the snake was altogether too unprecedented and
impossible. Accordingly, also at his suggestion, a crocodile was
substituted. Scarcely was this change effected, however, when Mr. R. T.
Coryndon, the slayer of almost the last white rhinoceros, published in
the _African Review_ of February 17, 1894, an account of a huge and
terrific serpent said to exist in the Dichwi district of Mashonaland,
that in many particulars resembled the snake of the story, whose
prototype, by the way, really lives and is adored as a divinity by
certain natives in the remote province of Chiapas in Mexico. Still, the
tale being in type, the alteration was suffered to stand. But now, if
the _Zoutpansberg Review_ may be believed, the author can take credit
for his crocodile also, since that paper states that in the course of
the recent campaign against Malaboch, a chief living in the north of
the Transvaal, his fetish or god was captured, and that god, a
crocodile fashioned in wood, to which offerings were made. Further,
this journal says that among these people (as with the ancient
Egyptians), the worship of the crocodile is a recognised cult. Also it
congratulates the present writer on his intimate acquaintance with the
more secret manifestations of African folklore and beast worship. He
must disclaim the compliment in this instance as, when engaged in
inventing the ‘People of the Mist,’ he was totally ignorant that any of
the Bantu tribes reverenced either snake or crocodile divinities. But
the coincidence is strange, and once more shows, if further examples of
the fact are needed, how impotent are the efforts of imagination to vie
with hidden truths—even with the hidden truths of this small and
trodden world.
_September_ 20, 1894.
THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST
Chapter I.
THE SINS OF THE FATHER ARE VISITED ON THE CHILDREN
The January afternoon was passing into night, the air was cold and
still, so still that not a single twig of the naked beech-trees
stirred; on the grass of the meadows lay a thin white rime, half frost,
half snow; the firs stood out blackly against a steel-hued sky, and
over the tallest of them hung a single star. Past these bordering firs
there ran a road, on which, in this evening of the opening of our
story, a young man stood irresolute, glancing now to the right and now
to the left.
To his right were two stately gates of iron fantastically wrought,
supported by stone pillars on whose summits stood griffins of black
marble embracing coats of arms, and banners inscribed with the device
_Per ardua ad astra_. Beyond these gates ran a broad carriage drive,
lined on either side by a double row of such oaks as England alone can
produce under the most favourable circumstances of soil, aided by the
nurturing hand of man and three or four centuries of time.
At the head of this avenue, perhaps half a mile from the roadway,
although it looked nearer because of the eminence upon which it was
placed, stood a mansion of the class that in auctioneers’
advertisements is usually described as “noble.” Its general appearance
was Elizabethan, for in those days some forgotten Outram had
practically rebuilt it; but a large part of its fabric was far more
ancient than the Tudors, dating back, so said tradition, to the time of
King John. As we are not auctioneers, however, it will be unnecessary
to specify its many beauties; indeed, at this date, some of the tribe
had recently employed their gift of language on these attractions with
copious fulness and accuracy of detail, since Outram Hall, for the
first time during six centuries, was, or had been, for sale.
Suffice it to say that, like the oaks of its avenue, Outram was such a
house as can only be found in England; no mere mass of bricks and
mortar, but a thing that seemed to have acquired a life and
individuality of its own. Or, if this saying be too far-fetched and
poetical, at the least this venerable home bore some stamp and trace of
the lives and individualities of many generations of mankind, linked
together in thought and feeling by the common bond of blood.
The young man who stood in the roadway looked long and earnestly
towards the mass of buildings that frowned upon him from the crest of
the hill, and as he looked an expression came into his face which fell
little, if at all, short of that of agony, the agony which the young
can feel at the shock of an utter and irredeemable loss. The face that
wore such evidence of trouble was a handsome one enough, though just
now all the charm of youth seemed to have faded from it. It was dark
and strong, nor was it difficult to guess that in after-life it might
become stern. The form also was shapely and athletic, though not very
tall, giving promise of more than common strength, and the bearing that
of a gentleman who had not brought himself up to the belief that
ancient blood can cover modern deficiencies of mind and manner. Such
was the outward appearance of Leonard Outram as he was then, in his
twenty-third year.
While Leonard watched and hesitated on the roadway, unable, apparently,
to make up his mind to pass those iron gates, and yet desirous of doing
so, carts and carriages began to appear hurrying down the avenue
towards him.
“I suppose that the sale is over,” he muttered to himself. “Well, like
death, it is a good thing to have done with.”
Then he turned to go; but hearing the crunch of wheels close at hand,
stepped back into the shadow of the gateway pillar, fearing lest he
should be recognised on the open road. A carriage came up, and, just as
it reached the gates, something being amiss with the harness, a footman
descended from the box to set it right. From where he stood Leonard
could see its occupants, the wife and daughter of a neighbouring
squire, and overhear their conversation. He knew them well; indeed, the
younger lady had been one of his favourite partners at the county
balls.
“How cheap the things went, Ida! Fancy buying that old oak sideboard
for ten pounds, and with all those Outram quarterings on it too! It is
as good as an historical document, and I am sure that it must be worth
at least fifty. I shall sell ours and put it into the dining-room. I
have coveted that sideboard for years.”
The daughter sighed and answered with some asperity.
“I am so sorry for the Outrams that I should not care about the
sideboard if you had got it for twopence. What an awful smash! Just
think of the old place being bought by a Jew! Tom and Leonard are
utterly ruined, they say, not a sixpence left. I declare I nearly cried
when I saw that man selling Leonard’s guns.”
“Very sad indeed,” answered the mother absently; “but if he is a Jew,
what does it matter? He has a title, and they say that he is enormously
rich. I expect there will be plenty going on at Outram soon. By the
way, my dear Ida, I do wish you would cure yourself of the habit of
calling young men by their Christian names—not that it matters about
these two, for we shall never see any more of them.”
“I am sure I hope that we shall,” said Ida defiantly, “and when we do I
shall call them by their Christian names as much as ever. You never
objected to it before the smash, and I _love_ both of them, so there!
Why did you bring me to that horrid sale? You know I did not want to
go. I shall be wretched for a week, I——” and the carriage swept on out
of hearing.
Leonard emerged from the shadow of the gateway and crossed the road
swiftly. On the further side of it he paused, and looking after the
retreating carriage said aloud, “God bless you for your kind heart, Ida
Hatherley. Good luck go with you! And now for the other business.”
A hundred yards or so down the road, was a second gate of much less
imposing appearance than those which led to the Outram Hall. Leonard
passed through it and presently found himself at the door of a square
red brick house, built with no other pretensions than to those of
comfort. This was the Rectory, now tenanted by the Reverend and
Honourable James Beach, to whom the living had been presented many
years before by Leonard’s father, Mr. Beach’s old college friend.
Leonard rang the bell, and as its distant clamour fell upon his ears a
new fear struck him. What sort of reception would he meet with in this
house? he wondered. Hitherto his welcome had always been so cordial
that until this moment he had never doubted of it, but now
circumstances were changed. He was no longer in the position of second
son to Sir Thomas Outram of Outram Hall. He was a beggar, an outcast, a
wanderer, the son of a fraudulent bankrupt and suicide. The careless
words of the woman in the carriage had let a flood of light into his
mind, and by it he saw many things which he had never seen before. Now
he remembered a little motto that he had often heard, but the full
force of which he did not appreciate until to-day. “Friends follow
fortune,” was the wording of this motto. He remembered also another
saying that had frequently been read to him in church and elsewhere,
and the origin of which precluded all doubt as to its truth:—
“Unto every one that hath shall be given, but from him that hath not
shall be taken away even that which he hath.”
Now, as it chanced, Leonard, beggared as he was, had still something
left which could be taken away from him, and that something the richest
fortune which Providence can give to any man in his youth, the love of
a woman whom he also loved. The Reverend and Honourable James Beach was
blessed with a daughter, Jane by name, who had the reputation, not
undeserved, of being the most beautiful and sweetest-natured girl that
the country-side could show. Now, being dark and fair respectively and
having lived in close association since childhood, Leonard and Jane, as
might be expected from the working of the laws of natural economy, had
gravitated towards each other with increasing speed ever since they had
come to understand the possibilities of the institution of marriage. In
the end thus mutual gravitation led to a shock and confusion of
individualities which was not without its charm; or, to put the matter
more plainly, Leonard proposed to Jane and had been accepted with many
blushes and some tears and kisses.
It was a common little romance enough, but, like everything else with
which youth and love are concerned, it had its elements of beauty. Such
affairs gain much from being the first in the series. Who is there
among us that does not adore his first love and his first poem? And yet
when we see them twenty years after!
Presently the Rectory door was opened and Leonard entered. At this
moment it occurred to him that he did not quite know why he had come.
To be altogether accurate, he knew why he had come well enough. It was
to see Jane, and arrive at an understanding with her father. Perhaps it
may be well to explain that his engagement to that young lady was of
the suppressed order. Her parents had no wish to suppress it, indeed;
for though Leonard was a younger son, it was well known that he was
destined to inherit his mother’s fortune of fifty thousand pounds more
or less. Besides, Providence had decreed a delicate constitution to his
elder and only brother Thomas. But Sir Thomas Outram, their father, was
reputed to be an ambitious man who looked to see his sons marry well,
and this marriage would scarcely have been to Leonard’s advantage from
the family lawyer point of view.
Therefore, when the matter came to the ears of Jane’s parents, they
determined to forego the outward expression of their pride and delight
in the captive whom they owed to the bow and spear of their daughter’s
loveliness, at any rate for a while, say until Leonard had taken his
degree. Often and often in the after-years did they have occasion to
bless themselves for their caution. But not the less on this account
was Leonard’s position as the affianced lover of their daughter
recognised among them; indeed, the matter was no secret from anybody,
except perhaps from Sir Thomas himself. For his part, Leonard took no
pains to conceal it even from him; but the father and son met rarely,
and the estrangement between them was so complete, that the younger man
saw no advantage in speaking of a matter thus near to his heart until
there appeared to be a practical object in so doing.
The Rev. James Beach was a stout person of bland and prepossessing
appearance. Never had he looked stouter, more prepossessing, or blander
than on this particular evening when Leonard was ushered into his
presence. He was standing before the fire in his drawing-room holding a
huge and ancient silver loving-cup in both hands, and in such a
position as to give the observer the idea that he had just drained its
entire contents. In reality, it may be explained, he was employed in
searching for a hall-mark on the bottom of the goblet, discoursing the
while to his wife and children—for Jane had a brother—upon its value
and beauty. The gleam of the silver caught Leonard’s eye as he entered
the room, and he recognised the cup as one of the heirlooms of his own
family.
Leonard’s sudden and unlooked-for advent brought various emotions into
active play. There were four people gathered round that comfortable
fire—the rector, his wife, his son, and last, but not least, Jane
herself. Mr. Beach dropped the cup sufficiently to allow himself to
stare at his visitor along its length, for all the world as though he
were covering him with a silver blunderbuss. His wife, an active little
woman, turned round as if she moved upon wires, exclaiming, “Good
gracious, who’d have thought it?” while the son, a robust young man of
about Leonard’s own age and his college companion, said “Hullo! old
fellow, well, I never expected to see _you_ here to-day!”—a remark
which, however natural it may have been, scarcely tended to set his
friend at ease.
Jane herself, a tall and beautiful girl with bright auburn hair, who
was seated on a footstool nursing her knees before the fire, and paying
very little heed to her father’s lecture upon ancient plate, did none
of these things. On the contrary, she sprang up with the utmost
animation, her lips apart and her lovely face red with blushes, or the
heat of the fire, and came towards him exclaiming, “Oh, Leonard, dear
Leonard!”
Mr. Beach turned the silver blunderbuss upon his daughter and fired a
single, but most effective shot.
“Jane!” he said in a voice in which fatherly admonition and friendly
warning were happily blended.
Jane stopped in full career as though in obedience to some lesson which
momentarily she had forgotten. Then Mr. Beach, setting down the flagon,
advanced upon Leonard with an ample pitying smile and outstretched
hand.
“How are you, my dear boy, how are you?” he said. “We did not expect—”
“To see me here under the circumstances,” put in Leonard bitterly. “Nor
would you have done so, but Tom and I understood that it was only to be
a three days’ sale.”
“Quite right, Leonard. As first advertised the sale was for three days,
but the auctioneer found that he could not get through in the time. The
accumulations of such an ancient house as Outram Hall are necessarily
_vast_,” and he waved his hand with a large gesture.
“Yes,” said Leonard.
“Hum!” went on Mr. Beach, after a pause which was beginning to grow
awkward. “Doubtless you will find it a matter for congratulation that
on the whole things sold well. It is not always the case, not by any
means, for such collections as those of Outram, however interesting and
valuable they may have been to the family itself, do not often fetch
their worth at a country auction. Yes, they sold decidedly well, thanks
chiefly to the large purchases of the new owner of the estate. This
tankard, for instance, which I have bought—hem—as a slight memento of
your family, cost me ten shillings an ounce.”
“Indeed!” answered Leonard coldly; “I always understood that it was
worth fifty.”
Then came another pause, during which all who were present, except Mr.
Beach and himself, rose one by one and quitted the room. Jane was the
last to go, and Leonard noticed, as she passed him, that there were
tears in her eyes.
“Jane,” said her father in a meaning voice when her hand was already on
the door, “you will be careful to be dressed in time for dinner, will
you not, love? You remember that young Mr. Cohen is coming, and I
should like somebody to be down to receive him.”
Jane’s only answer to this remark was to pass through the door and slam
it behind her. Clearly the prospect of the advent of this guest was not
agreeable to her.
“Well, Leonard,” went on Mr. Beach when they were alone, in a tone that
was meant to be sympathetic but which jarred horribly on his listener’s
ears, “this is a sad business, very sad. But why are you not sitting
down?”
“Because no one asked me to,” said Leonard as he took a chair.
“Hem!” continued Mr. Beach; “by the way I believe that Mr. Cohen is a
friend of yours, is he not?”
“An acquaintance, not a friend,” said Leonard.
“Indeed, I thought that you were at the same college.”
“Yes, but I do not like him.”
“Prejudice, my dear boy, prejudice. A minor sin indeed, but one against
which you must struggle. But there, there, it is natural that you
should not feel warmly about the man who will one day own Outram. Ah!
as I said, this is all very sad, but it must be a great consolation to
you to remember that when everything is settled there will be enough,
so I am told, to pay your unhappy father’s debts. And now, is there
anything that I can do for you or your brother?”
Leonard reflected that whatever may have been his father’s misdeeds,
and they were many and black, it should scarcely have lain in the mouth
of the Rev. James Beach, who owed nearly everything he had in the world
to his kindness, to allude to them. But he could not defend his
father’s memory, it was beyond defence, and just now he must fight for
his own hand.
“Yes, Mr. Beach,” he said earnestly, “you can help me very much. You
know the cruel position in which my brother and I are placed through no
fault of our own: our old home is sold, our fortunes have gone utterly,
and our honourable name is tarnished. At the present moment I have
nothing left in the world except the sum of two hundred pounds which I
had saved for a purpose of my own out of my allowance. I have no
profession and cannot even take my degree, because I am unable to
afford the expense of remaining at college.”
“Black, I must say, very black,” murmured Mr. Beach, rubbing his chin.
“But under these circumstances what can I do to help you? You must
trust in Providence, my boy; it never fails the deserving.”
“This,” answered Leonard, nervously; “you can show your confidence in
me by allowing my engagement to Jane to be proclaimed.” Here Mr. Beach
waved his hand once more as though to repel some invisible force.
“One moment,” continued Leonard. “I know that it seems a great deal to
ask, but listen. Although everything looks so dark, I have reliance on
myself. With the stimulus which my affection for your daughter will
give me, and knowing that in order to win her I must first put myself
in a position to support her as she should be supported, I am quite
convinced that I shall be able to surmount all difficulties by my own
efforts.”
“Really, I cannot listen to such nonsense any longer,” broke in Mr.
Beach angrily. “Leonard, this is nothing less than an impertinence. Of
course any understanding that may have existed between you and Jane is
quite at an end. Engagement! I heard of no engagement. I knew that
there was some boy and girl folly between you indeed, but for my part I
never gave the matter another thought.”
“You seem to forget, sir,” said Leonard, keeping his temper with
difficulty, “that not six months ago you and I had a long conversation
on this very subject, and decided that nothing should be said to my
father of the matter until I had taken my degree.”
“I repeat that it is an impertinence,” answered Mr. Beach, but with a
careful avoidance of the direct issue. “What! You, who have nothing in
the world except a name which your father has—well—tarnished—to use
your own word, you ask me for my dear daughter’s hand? You are so
selfish that you wish not only to ruin her chances in life, but also to
drag her into the depths of your poverty. Leonard, I should never have
thought it of you!”
Then at last Leonard broke out.
“You do not speak the truth. I did not ask you for your daughter’s
hand. I asked you for the promise of it when I should have shown myself
worthy of her. But now there is an end of that. I will go as you bid me
but before I go I will tell you the truth. You wish to use Jane’s
beauty to catch this Jew with. Of her happiness you think nothing,
provided only you can secure his money. She is not a strong character,
and it is quite possible that you will succeed in your plot, but I tell
you it will not prosper. You, who owe everything to our family, now
when trouble has overtaken us, turn upon me and rob me of the only good
that was left to me. By putting an end to a connection of which
everybody knew, you stamp me still deeper into the mire. So be it, but
of this I am sure, that such conduct will meet with a due reward, and
that a time will come when you will bitterly regret the way in which
you have dealt with your daughter and treated me in my misfortunes.
Good-bye.”
And Leonard turned and left the room and the Rectory.