Part 41 (1/2)

”No; I haven't got a wife--not now.”

”Ah! had, then. Family you want to get back to?”

”Only one son--a boy at school. But he won't have heard of the wreck, and if he did wouldn't connect it with me fortunately. I took pa.s.sage in the _Baleka_ at the last moment, and didn't even cable it home. By the way, some of these amiable people have relieved me of my pocket-book, and there were some notes in it. I don't know whether they can be persuaded to disgorge.”

”Perhaps. But if we start from here to-morrow there'll hardly be time.”

”No; I suppose not. Never mind, then,” was the easy answer, for the starting to-morrow had a soothing ring, beside which the loss was a mere trifle. But the speaker little thought how his listener had already made up his mind to have those notes in his own possession before the dawning of another day--incidentally, it might be, at the cost of a life or two.

The smoky rays of the sinking tropical sun shot in through the open doorway, illumining the gloomy interior. The stranger had brought a pen and ink with him--strange accessories of civilisation in that remote haunt of barbarous man-eaters. A wooden native stool did duty as a desk, and Wagram, squatted on the floor, proceeded to affix his signature: ”Wagram Gerard Wagram.”

”Will that do?” he said, glancing up. Then he started in amazement, not undashed with alarm; for the other, who had been standing over him, emitted a sort of gasp. His face seemed to contract, then harden as he glared at the paper, then at the man who held it.

”That your name?” he said, and his voice took on a sort of growl.

”Yes; of course,” was the wondering answer.

”That's your name--your real name?” repeated the stranger, and the growl in his voice and the stare of his eyes seemed full of menace and hate.

”Yes; that's my name, and there it is,” answered Wagram firmly, yet not without a dire foreboding over the extraordinary effect it seemed to produce.

”Yes--of course. Ho-ho! That's your name--Wagram Gerard Wagram! Of course it is--of course. Ho-ho!” And, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the paper, the other went out of the hut, leaving behind him the echo of his mocking tones and savage, sneering laughter.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE CLOSED DOOR.

The stranger walked slowly across to his own quarters in a frame of mind very unwonted with him. Something had moved him--moved him powerfully.

A new vista opened before him, and what a promise of the good things of life did he behold. The past, too, came before him, but it he put aside with sneering and bitterness.

Two female slaves greeted him with subservient smiles. They were not of this race, but had been brought from much farther inland. They were much lighter in colour, physically fine symmetrical specimens, and not without good looks. Their smiles he returned with a frown that made them cower.

”No more of these,” he muttered in English, staring at them. ”White-- red and white--white and gold--golden hair--volumes of it--every kind.

Aha! No more of this soot.”

They cowered still more before his stare, wondering which of their recent or further back delinquencies had come to his knowledge or what their fate would be. But now he ordered them to begone, and, while trying not to show their relief, they lost no time in obeying.

He got out a bottle of rum and poured out a strong, stiff measure. This he tossed off like water. The beginning of a debauch? Oh no. This man knew better than that. He was never seen intoxicated--he valued his influence too much--and were he once seen in a state of incapacity he knew full well that his influence would be gone; further, that it would not be long before his life followed. There were times, however, when he had taken enough liquor to have sent two ordinary hard-headed men to the ground, and at such times the black savages among whom he dwelt were careful to give this white savage a very wide berth indeed. That was all.

His private quarters were in no way ringed off from the rest of the town, in which was reason. No combination could thus be formed against him, or any hostile plan unknown to himself be carried out, as might be the case were he more shut away. But his huts were better and more s.p.a.cious than the rest, that mostly occupied by himself attaining almost to the dignity of a bungalow--and, indeed, in such dread was this place held that his possessions were as sacred as though guarded by iron safes. For the acquisitive savage had found it unhealthy to pilfer from this his white brother. At first he had tried it. One attempt had been met by a wholly unlooked-for shot, killing the offender. On another occasion a large and heavy knife had fallen unexpectedly from nowhere, penetrating the brain of the would-be thief, with similar result. This was the more singular in that at the time of both attempts he whom they would have plundered was about fifty miles away, so that it needed not many recurrences of further disaster--in each case mysterious, and taking a varying form--to render this man's goods absolutely safe.

The secret of the extraordinary ascendency of this white savage over the black, apart from the fact that he never interfered in the slightest degree with their manners and customs, especially when he had led them personally in some sanguinary and victorious raid, may have lain in the fact that he tolerated no opposition. If he considered his subordinate devils had a real grievance he would listen to it and redress it, and of this we have seen at least one gruesome instance. Otherwise he simply rose up and killed the offender--killed him with his own hand.

Now he went outside his house, called a name, and issued an order. In the result, about three quarters of an hour saw him in possession of Wagram's pocket-book. This he proceeded to investigate with quite unwonted hurry. A few visiting cards and the notes Wagram had mentioned were all it contained. The latter he put aside. Cash was always--cash.

For Wagram himself another long, trying, well-nigh sleepless night was in store--a night of wearing suspense, and the certainty of a most dreadful disappointment. For he could not disguise from himself the consciousness that something had gone suddenly wrong--that the train of the negotiation had, at a certain point, left the rails--for what otherwise could be the meaning of the sudden change of tone and manner on the part of the stranger directly the agreement was completed? Had he merely been fooling him with promises of escape until he had put his name to a doc.u.ment binding him to pay down a very large sum? At first blush it looked like this, but further reflection served to show that, failing his own co-operation, the doc.u.ment was useless for the purpose of obtaining one single s.h.i.+lling--in a word, was utterly unnegotiable.

Could it be that the man was touched in the brain, and subject to sudden and dangerous impulses--hence his unlooked-for change of manner--or was he a renegade, who had, perhaps, undergone the penalty of former crime and hated those of his own blood and colour in consequence? Anyway the whole affair was a mystery, which the morning might solve; and that it would solve it in a way that was speedily favourable to himself he devoutly hoped and prayed.

He fell into an uneasy sleep; and it seemed he had hardly done so when he was aroused by a touch. He opened his eyes, to meet those of a savage who was standing over him, and a shudder of loathing ran through him; and this not entirely due to the strong musky odour wherewith the new-comer seemed to be poisoning the air--the fact being that, since the scene he had yesterday witnessed, these were no longer human beings in his eyes but so many horrible ghouls. This one, however, beckoned him to get up and go with him.