faithful and hopeful, wise in charity,
strong in grave peace, in pity circumspect.
those who for their sins have been to loango will scarcely care to have its beauties recalled to memory. and to such as have not yet visited the spot one can only earnestly recommend a careful avoidance.
suffice it to say, therefore, that there is such a place, and the curious may find it marked in larger type than it deserves on the map of africa, on the west coast of that country, and within an inch or so of the equator.
loango has a bar, and outside of that mysterious and somewhat suggestive nautical hindrance the coasting steamers anchor, while the smaller local fry find harbour nearer to the land. the passenger is not recommended to go ashore—indeed, many difficulties are placed in his way, and he usually stays on board while the steamer receives or discharges a scanty cargo, rolling ceaselessly in the atlantic swell. the roar of the surf may be heard, and at times some weird cry or song. there is nothing to tempt even the most adventurous through that surf. a moderately large white building attracts the eye, and usually brings upon itself a contemptuous stare, for it seems to be the town of loango, marked so bravely on the map. as a matter of fact the town is five miles inland, and the white building is only a factory or trading establishment.
loango is the reverse of cheerful. to begin with, it is usually raining there. the roar of the surf—than which there are few sadder sounds on earth—fills the atmosphere with a never-ceasing melancholy. the country is overwooded; the tropical vegetation, the huge tangled african trees, stand almost in the surf; and inland the red serrated hills mount guard in gloomy array. for europeans this country is accursed. from the mysterious forest-land there creeps down a subtle, tainted air that poisons the white man's blood, and either strikes him down in a fever or terrifies him by strange unknown symptoms and sudden disfiguring disease. the almighty speaks very plainly sometimes and in some places—nowhere more plainly than on the west coast of africa, which land he evidently wants for the black man. we of the fairer skin have australia now; we are taking america, we are dominant in asia; but somehow we don't get on in africa. the umpire is there, and he insists on fair play.
“this is not cheery,” jack meredith observed to his servant as they found themselves deposited on the beach within a stone's-throw of the french factory.
“no, sir, not cheery, sir,” replied joseph. he was very busy attending to the landing of their personal effects, and had only time to be respectful. it was joseph's way to do only one thing at a time, on the principle, no doubt, that enough for the moment is the evil thereof. his manner implied that, when those coloured gentlemen had got the baggage safely conveyed out of the boats on to the beach, it would be time enough to think about loango.
moreover, joseph was in his way rather a dauntless person. he held that there were few difficulties which he and his master, each in his respective capacity, were unable to meet. this african mode of life was certainly not one for which he had bargained when taking service; but he rather enjoyed it than otherwise, and he was consoled by the reflection that what was good enough for his master was good enough for him. beneath the impenetrable mask of a dignified servitude he knew that this was “all along of that chyne girl,” and rightly conjectured that it would not last for ever. he had an immense respect for sir john, whom he tersely described as a “game one,” but his knowledge of the world went towards the supposition that headstrong age would finally bow before headstrong youth. he did not, however, devote much consideration to these matters, being a young man although an old soldier, and taking a lively interest in the present.
it had been arranged by letter that jack meredith should put up, as his host expressed it, at the small bungalow occupied by maurice gordon and his sister. gordon was the local head of a large trading association somewhat after the style of the old east india company, and his duties partook more of the glory of a governor than of the routine of a trader.
of maurice gordon's past meredith knew nothing beyond the fact that they were schoolfellows strangely brought together again on the deck of a coasting steamer. maurice gordon was not a reserved person, and it was rather from a lack of opportunity than from an excess of caution that he allowed his new-found friend to go up the ogowe river, knowing so little of himself, maurice gordon, of loango.
there were plenty of willing guides and porters on the beach; for in this part of africa there is no such thing as continued and methodical labour. the entire population considers the lilies of the field to obvious purpose.
joseph presently organised a considerable portion of this population into a procession, headed triumphantly by an old white-woolled negro whose son cleaned maurice gordon's boots. this man joseph selected—not without one or two jokes of a somewhat personal nature—as a fitting guide to the gordons' house. as they neared the little settlement on the outskirts of the black town where the mission and other european residences are situated, the veteran guide sent on couriers to announce the arrival of the great gentleman, who had for body-servant the father of laughter.
on finally reaching the bungalow meredith was pleasantly surprised. it was pretty and homelike—surrounded by a garden wherein grew a strange profusion of homely english vegetables and tropical flowers.
joseph happened to be in front, and, as he neared the verandah, he suddenly stopped at the salute; moreover, he began to wonder in which trunk he had packed his master's dress-clothes.
an english lady was coming out of the drawing-room window to meet the travellers—a lady whose presence diffused that sense of refinement and peace into the atmosphere which has done as much towards the expansion of our piecemeal empire as ever did the strong right arm of thomas atkins. it is because—sooner or later—these ladies come with us that we have learnt to mingle peace with war—to make friends of whilom enemies.
she nodded in answer to the servant's salutation, and passed on to greet the master.
“my brother has been called away suddenly,” she said. “one of his sub-agents has been getting into trouble with the natives. of course you are mr. meredith?”
“i am,” replied jack, taking the hand she held out; it was a small white hand—small without being frail or diaphanous. “and you are miss gordon, i suppose? i am sorry gordon is away, but no doubt we shall be able to find somewhere to put up.”
“you need not do that,” she said quietly. “this is africa, you know. you can quite well stay with us, although maurice is away until to-morrow.”
“sure?” he asked.
“quite!” she answered.
she was tall and fair, with a certain stateliness of carriage which harmonised wonderfully with a thoughtful and pale face. she was not exactly pretty, but gracious and womanly, with honest blue eyes that looked on men and women alike. she was probably twenty-eight years of age; her manner was that of a woman rather than of a girl—of one who was in life and not on the outskirts.
“we rather pride ourselves,” she said, leading the way into the drawing-room, “upon having the best house in loango. you will, i think, be more comfortable here than anywhere.”
she turned and looked at him with a slow, grave smile. she was noticing that, of the men who had been in this drawing-room, none had seemed so entirely at his ease as this one.
“i must ask you to believe that i was thinking of your comfort and not of my own.”
“yes, i know you were,” she answered. “our circle is rather limited, as you will find, and very few of the neighbours have time to think of their houses. most of them are missionaries, and they are so busy; they have a large field, you see.”
“very—and a weedy one, i should think.”
he was looking round, noting with well-trained glance the thousand little indescribable touches that make a charming room. he knew his ground. he knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament—the title and the writer of each book—the very material with which the chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good—all arranged with that art which is the difference between ignorance and knowledge.
“i see you have all the new books.”
“yes, we have books and magazines; but, of course, we live quite out of the world.”
she paused, leaving the conversation with him, as in the hands of one who knew his business.
“i,” he said, filling up the pause, “have hitherto lived in the world—right in it. there is a lot of dust and commotion; the dust gets into people's eyes and blinds them; the commotion wears them out; and perhaps, after all, loango is better!”
he spoke with the easy independence of the man of the world, accustomed to feel his way in strange places—not heeding what opinion he might raise—what criticism he might brave. he was glancing round him all the while, noting things, and wondering for whose benefit this pretty room had been evolved in the heart of a savage country. perhaps he had assimilated erroneous notions of womankind in the world of which he spoke; perhaps he had never met any of those women whose natural refinement urges them to surround themselves, even in solitude, with pretty things, and prompts them to dress as neatly and becomingly as their circumstances allow for the edification of no man.
“i never abuse loango,” she answered; “such abuse is apt to recoil. to call a place dull is often a confession of dulness.”
he laughed—still in that somewhat unnatural manner, as if desirous of filling up time. he had spent the latter years of his life in doing nothing else. the man's method was so different to what jocelyn gordon had met with in loango, where men were all in deadly earnest, pursuing souls or wealth, that it struck her forcibly, and she remembered it long after meredith had forgotten its use.
“i have no idea,” she continued, “how the place strikes the passing traveller; he usually passes by on the other side; but i am afraid there is nothing to arouse the smallest interest.”
“but, miss gordon, i am not the passing traveller.”
she looked up with a sudden interest.
“indeed! i understood from maurice that you were travelling down the coast without any particular object.”
“i have an object—estimable, if not quite original.”
“yes?”
“i want to make some money. i have never made any yet, so there is a certain novelty in the thought which is pleasant.”
she smiled with the faintest suspicion of incredulity.
“i know what you are thinking,” he said; “that i am too neat and tidy—too namby-pamby to do anything in this country. that my boots are too narrow in the toe, my hair too short and my face too clean. i cannot help it. it is the fault of the individual you saw outside—joseph. he insists on a strict observance of the social duties.”
“we are rougher here,” she answered.
“i left england,” he explained, “in rather a hurry. i had no time to buy uncomfortable boots, or anything like that. i know it was wrong. the ordinary young man of society who goes morally to the dogs and physically to the colonies always has an outfit. his friends buy him an outfit, and certain enterprising haberdashers make a study of such things. i came as i am.”
while he was speaking she had been watching him—studying him more closely than she had hitherto been able to do.
“i have heard of a sir john meredith,” she said suddenly.
“my father.”
he paused, drawing in his legs, and apparently studying the neat brown boots of which there had been question.
“should you meet him again,” he went on, “it would not be advisable to mention my name. he might not care to hear it. we have had a slight difference of opinion. with me it is different. i am always glad to hear about him. i have an immense respect for him.”
she listened gravely, with a sympathy that did not attempt to express itself in words. on such a short acquaintance she had not learnt to expect a certain lightness of conversational touch which he always assumed when speaking of himself, as if his own thoughts and feelings were matters for ridicule.
“of course,” he went on, “i was in the wrong. i know that. but it sometimes happens that a man is not in a position to admit that he is in the wrong—when, for instance, another person would suffer by such an admission.”
“yes,” answered jocelyn; “i understand.”
at this moment a servant came in with lamps and proceeded to close the windows. she was quite an old woman—an englishwoman—and as she placed the lamps upon the table she scrutinised the guest after the manner of a privileged servitor. when she had departed jack meredith continued his narrative with a sort of deliberation which was explained later on.
“and,” he said, “that is why i came to africa—that is why i want to make money. i do not mind confessing to a low greed of gain, because i think i have the best motive that a man can have for wanting to make money.”
he said this meaningly, and watched her face all the while.
“a motive which any lady ought to approve of.”
she smiled sympathetically.
“i approve and i admire your spirit.”
she rose as she spoke, and moved towards a side table, where two lighted candles had been placed.
“my motive for talking so barefacedly about myself,” he said, as they moved towards the door together, “was to let you know exactly who i am and why i am here. it was only due to you on accepting your hospitality. i might have been a criminal or an escaped embezzler. there were two on board the steamer coming out, and several other shady characters.”
“yes,” said the girl; “i saw your motive.”
they were now in the hall, and the aged servant was waiting to show him his room.
