The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
at home, on my word I could. Titled ladies, some of them; but there’s something about you — ?”
They were alone on the promenade deck and it was dark and he had dined and was full of confidence.
“There’s something about you” — he tightened his hold on her arm— “that gets into my blood — Ruth!”
In a second she was clasped in his strong arms, struggling.
“Let me go!” she cried.
For answer he bent and kissed her fiercely.
With a superhuman effort she treed herself and staggered back against the rail, pale and trembling.
“You blackguard!” she breathed.
The scorn in her steady grey eyes cowed him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m a fool — I’ve had a little to drink — ?”
She walked swiftly along the deck and disappeared down the companion, and for three days he did not see her.
Another man would have been ashamed to meet her again, but Burney Mackiney was not of this kind. He had views on women, and had no other regret than that he had apologised. That was weak, he felt. The stronger, the more masterful you are with women, the better they like it. He waited his opportunity.
The night before the ship reached Sierra Leone he found her sitting on the forepart of the promenade deck, alone.
“Miss Glandynne!” he greeted; and she looked up with a cold stare. “Look here, what’s the good of being bad friends. I’ve made up my mind to marry you.”
She would have risen, but she feared a repetition of the scene in which she had been an unwilling actress. So she sat in silence and he misinterpreted her attitude.
“I can’t get you out of my mind,” he went on. “It’s damnable to think of you on the Isisi River with nothing but cannibals and native brutes about you.”
“Any variety of brute is preferable to you,” she said; and the insult went home.
For a moment he stood incoherent with rage, then he loosed upon her a flood of invective.
She took advantage of his humiliation to make her escape. He did not see her again, though she saw him, for she watched the boat that carried him to land at Sierra Leone with heartfelt gratitude.
*
MR. COMMISSIONER SANDERS came down to the beach to meet her and he was in no amiable frame of mind.
She saw a man of medium height, dressed in spotless white, a big white helmet shading a face tanned to the colour of teak. His face was thin and cleanshaven, his eyes unwavering and questioning, his every movement conveying the impression of alert vitality.
“I suppose I ought to be glad to see you,” he said, shaking his head reprovingly. “You’re the first white woman I’ve seen for many rains — but you’re a responsibility.”
She laughed, and gave him a cool, soft hand to shake. “You don’t like missionaries, do you?” she smiled.
“I don’t,” said Sanders; “but I’ve had all sorts of orders to see that you’re made comfortable; and really there is a lot of work on the river — medical work amongst the women. You’re the doctor, I suppose?”
She shook her head.
“I’m the nurse,” she said; “the doctor was taken ill before I sailed.”
“Humph!” said Sanders.
He had had a hut prepared for her, and two native women trained to the ways of white folk to wait upon her. He gave her dinner that night at his bungalow, and invited the Houssa captain to share the meal. It was the nearest approach to a chaperon he could find.
“I’ve had a hut built for you,” he said; “and the stores and furniture which came for you have been sent up. There are three or four missionaries in the country. You will find Father O’Leary at Cosinkusu — that’s about a hundred miles from you. He’s a decent sort of chap. There’s a man named Boyton — he’s a Baptist, or something, and is always on the rampage against the father for proselytising his flock. Boyton lives about one hundred and fifty miles from you. They’re the principal missionaries.”
He gave her a brief history of the district in which she was to live; indeed, he told her much more than he ever intended telling, but those grey eyes were very compelling and those lips were so ready to smile.
She stayed two days at headquarters and on the third morning her belongings were packed on the Zaire.
Before this she met Bosambo of Monrovia, specially summoned.
“This man is chief of the tribe which lies nearest to your station,” said Sanders; “though you are practically in the Isisi country. I have sent for him to — to — ?”
“Tell him to look after me,” she smiled, and Sanders smiled responsively.
“Something like that. As a matter of fact, I wanted you to see him here so that he might know that you go as my guest and my friend.”
He stammered a little, for Sanders was not used to saying pretty things.
When he had seen her on board he sent for Bosambo.
“Bosambo,” he said, in the vernacular, “this lady is of my race, and she will be alone amongst my people, who are wicked and cunning, seeking to deceive her, for she is a God-woman, though she is also a doctor. Now to you I say guard her till your last breath of life, and be in my place, as me, in all matters that touch her.”
Bosambo stretched out his hands, palm upwards.
“Master,” he said earnestly, “if I swore by the Blessed Virgin whom I worshipped in Liberia, behold I do not know who I swear by, for I have forgotten the holy things that the fathers taught me. But by my head and spirit, and by my life-ghost, I will do as you say.”
He turned and walked majestically to the boat. Halfway down the beach he turned about and came back to Sanders.
“Lord, when I have been faithful to your honour’s satisfaction, will you buy for me at Sierra Leone a piece of gold cloth, such as a chief might wear?”
“Go, you bargaining child!” said Sanders, without irritation.
He watched the little steamer until it swept round a bend of the river out of sight, and then walked slowly to the bungalow, with — it must be confessed — a sigh.
In Sierra Leone, about this time, Burney Mackiney was engaged with his father.
The elder Mackiney was not pleasant to look upon, being grossly stout, puckered and yellow of face, and affected with stertorous breathing.
“It’s worth trying,” he said, after there had been long silence; “the country’s full of rubber, and there’s no law preventing the importation of liquor — except the law which gives the commissioner the right to make his own laws. How would you get in?”
“Through the French territory,” said his son; “it’s dead easy.”
There was another long pause.
“But why do you want to go?” asked the elder. “It’s not like you to go to a lot of trouble.”
“I want to see the country,” said the other carelessly. He wanted something more than that. For days he had been hatching his black plot — the Arabs had done such things, and it would not be difficult. Clear of civilisation, he would become an Arab — he spoke coast Arabic perfectly.
He could buy his way through the tribes; a swift dash across the French frontier, he could reach the Isisi River — stay long enough to establish the fact that it was an Arab trader who was the guilty man. She would have to marry