With Edged Tools Part 31

With the clear sight of the onlooker, Jocelyn Gordon now saw that, by Jack Meredith's own showing, Millicent was quite unworthy of him. But she also remembered words, silences, and hints which demonstrated with lamentable plainness the fact that he loved her. She was old enough and sufficiently experienced to avoid the futile speculation as to what had attracted this love. She knew that men marry women who in the estimation of onlooking relatives are unworthy of them, and live happily ever afterwards, without deeming it necessary to explain to those relatives how it comes about.

Now it happened that this woman--Jocelyn Gordon--was not one of those who gracefully betray themselves at the right moment and are immediately covered with a most becoming confusion. She was strong to hold to her purpose, to subdue herself, to keep silent. And this task she set herself, having thought it all carefully out in the little flower-scented verandah, so full of pathetic a.s.sociation. But it must be remembered that she in no wise seemed to see the pathos in her own life.

She was unconscious of romance. It was all plain fact, and the plainest was her love for Jack Meredith.

Her daily life was in no perceptible way changed. Maurice Gordon saw no difference. She had never been an hilarious person. Now she went about her household, her kindnesses, and un.o.btrusive good works with a quieter mien; but, when occasion or social duty demanded, she seemed perhaps a little readier than before to talk of indifferent topics, to laugh at indifferent wit. Those who have ears to hear and eyes wherewith to see learn to distrust the laugh that is too ready, the sympathy that flows in too broad a stream. Happiness is self-absorbed.

Four months elapsed, and the excitement created in the small world of Western Africa by the first dazzling success of the Simiacine Expedition began to subside. The thing took its usual course. At first the experts disbelieved, and then they prophesied that it could not last. Finally, the active period of envy, hatred, and malice gave way to a sullen tolerance not unmixed with an indefinite grudge towards Fortune who had favoured the brave once more.

Maurice Gordon was in daily expectation of news from that far-off favoured spot they vaguely called the Plateau. And Jocelyn did not pretend to conceal from herself the hope that filled her whole being--the hope that Jack Meredith might bring the news in person.

Instead, came Victor Durnovo.

He came upon her one evening when she was walking slowly home from a mild tea-party at the house of a missionary. Hearing footsteps on the sandy soil, she turned, and found herself face to face with Durnovo.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, and her voice thrilled with some emotion which he did not understand. "Ah, it is you!"

"Yes," he said, holding her hand a little longer than was necessary. "It is I."

His journey from Msala through the more civilised reaches of the lower river, his voyage in the coasting boat, and his arrival at Loango, had partaken of the nature of a triumphal progress. Victor Durnovo was elated--like a girl in a new dress.

"I was coming along to see you," he said, and there was a subtle offence in his tone.

She did not trouble to tell him that Maurice was away for ten days. She felt that he knew that. There was a certain truculence in his walk which annoyed her; but she was wonderingly conscious of the fact that she was no longer afraid of him. This feeling had as yet taken no definite shape. She did not know what she felt, but she knew that there was no fear in her mind.

"Have you been successful?" she asked, with a certain negative kindness of tone bred of this new self-confidence.

"I should think we had! Why, the lot that Oscard brought down was a fortune in itself. But you saw Oscard, of course. Did he stay at the bungalow?"

"No; he stayed at the hotel."

"Did you like him?"

The question was accompanied by a momentary glance of the dark, jealous eyes.

"Yes, very much."

"He is a nice fellow, first-rate fellow. Of course, he has his faults, but he and I got on splendidly. He's--engaged, you know."

"So he told me."

Durnovo glanced at her again searchingly, and looked relieved. He gave an awkward little laugh.

"And I understand," he said, "that Meredith is in the same enviable position."

"Indeed!"

Durnovo indulged in a meaning silence.

"When do you go back?" she asked carelessly.

"Almost at once," in a tone that apologised for causing her necessary pain. "I must leave to-morrow or the next day. I do not like the idea of Meredith being left too long alone up there with a reduced number of men. Of course, I had to bring a pretty large escort. I brought down sixty thousand pounds worth of Simiacine."

"Yes," she said; "and you take all the men back to-morrow?"

He did not remember having stated for certain that he was leaving the next day.

"Or the day after," he amended.

"Have you had any more sickness among the men?" she asked at once, in a tone of irony which made him wince.

"No," he answered, "they have been quite all right."

"What time do you start?" she asked. "There are letters for Mr. Meredith at the office. Maurice's head clerk will give them to you."

She knew that these letters were from Millicent. She had actually had them in her hand. She had inhaled the faint, refined scent of the paper and envelopes.

"You will be careful that they are not lost, won't you?" she said, tearing at her own heart with a strange love of the pain. "They may be important."

"Oh, I will deliver them sharp enough," he answered. "I suppose I had better start to-morrow."

"I should think so," she replied quietly, with that gentle mendacity which can scarcely be grudged to women, because they are so poorly armed. "I should think so. You know what these men are. Every hour they have in Loango demoralises them more and more."

They had reached the gate of the bungalow garden. She turned and held out her hand in an undeniable manner. He bade her good-bye and went his way, wondering vaguely what had happened to them both. The conversation had taken quite a different turn to what he had expected and intended.

But somehow it had got beyond his control. He had looked forward to a very different ending to the interview. And now he found himself returning somewhat disconsolately to the wretched hotel in Loango--dismissed--sent back.

The next day he actually left the little West African coast town, turning his face northward with bad grace. Even at that distance, he feared Jack Meredith's half-veiled sarcasm. He knew that nothing could be hidden for long from the Englishman's suavely persistent inquiry and deduction. Besides, the natives were no longer safe. Meredith, with the quickness of a cultured linguist, had picked up enough of their language to understand them, while Joseph talked freely with them in that singular mixture of slang and vernacular which follows the redcoat all over the world. Durnovo had only been allowed to come down to the coast under a promise, gracefully veiled, but distinct enough, that he should only remain twenty-four hours in Loango.

Jocelyn avoided seeing him again. She was forced to forego the opportunity of hearing much that she wanted to learn because Durnovo, the source of the desired knowledge, was unsafe. But the relief from the suspense of the last few months was in itself a consolation. All seemed to be going on well at the Plateau. Danger is always discounted at sight; and Jocelyn felt comparatively easy respecting the present welfare of Jack Meredith, living as she did on the edge of danger.

Four days later she was riding through the native town of Loango, accompanied by a lady-friend, when she met Victor Durnovo. The sight of him gave her a distinct shock. She knew that he had left Loango three days before with all his men. There was no doubt about that. Moreover, his air was distinctly furtive--almost scared. It was evident that the chance meeting was as undesired by him as it was surprising to her.

"I thought you had left," she said shortly, pulling up her horse with undeniable decision.

"Yes... but I have come back--for--for more men."

She knew he was lying, and he felt that she knew.

"Indeed!" she said. "You are not a good starter."

She turned her horse's head, nodded to her friend, bowed coldly to Durnovo, and trotted towards home. When she had reached the corner of the rambling, ill-paved street, she touched her horse. The animal responded. She broke into a gentle canter, which made the little children cease their play and stare. In the forest she applied the spurs, and beneath the whispering trees, over the silent sand, the girl galloped home as fast as her horse could lay legs to the ground.

Jocelyn Gordon was one of those women who rise slowly to the occasion, and the limit of their power seems at times to be only defined by the greatness of the need.

CHAPTER XXIII. MERCURY