take heed of still waters.
despite his assertion to lady cantourne, guy oscard stayed on in the gloomy house in russell square. he had naturally gone thither on his return from africa, and during the months that followed he did not find time to think much of his own affairs. millicent chyne occupied all his thoughts—all his waking moments. it is marvellous how busily employed an active-minded young lady can keep a man.
in the ill-lighted study rendered famous by the great history which had emanated in the manuscript therefrom, guy oscard had interviewed sundry great commercial experts, and a cheque for forty-eight thousand pounds had been handed to him across the table polished bright by his father's studious elbow. the simiacine was sold, and the first portion of it spent went to buy a diamond aigrette for the dainty head of miss millicent chyne.
guy oscard was in the midst of the london season. his wealth and a certain restricted renown had soon made him popular. he had only to choose his society, and the selection was not difficult. wherever millicent chyne went he went also, and to the lady's credit it must be recorded that no one beyond herself and guy oscard had hitherto noticed this fact. millicent was nothing if not discreet. it was more or less generally known that she was engaged to jack meredith, who, although absent on some vaguely romantic quest of a fortune, was not yet forgotten. no word, however, was popularly whispered connecting her name with that of any other swain nearer home. miss chyne was too much of a woman of the world to allow that. but, in the meantime, she rather liked diamond aigrettes and the suppressed devotion of guy oscard.
it was the evening of a great ball, and guy oscard, having received his orders and instructions, was dining alone in russell square, when a telegram was handed to him. he opened it and spread the thin paper out upon the table-cloth. a word from that far, wild country, which seemed so much fitter a background to his simple bulk and strength than the cramped ways of london society—a message from the very heart of the dark continent—to him:
“meredith surrounded and in danger durnovo false come at once jocelyn gordon.”
guy oscard pushed back his chair and rose at once, as if there were somebody waiting in the hall to see him.
“i do not want any more dinner,” he said, “i am going to africa. come and help me to pack my things.”
he studied bradshaw and wrote a note to millicent chyne. to her he said the same as he had said to the butler, “i am going to africa.”
there was something refreshingly direct and simple about this man. he did not enter into long explanations. he simply bore on in the line he had marked out. he rose from the table and never looked back. his attitude seemed to say, “i am going to africa; kindly get out of my way.”
at three minutes to nine—that is to say, in one hour and a half—guy oscard took his seat in the plymouth express. he had ascertained that a madeira boat was timed to sail from dartmouth at eight o'clock that evening. he was preceded by a telegram to lloyd's agent at plymouth:
“have fastest craft available, steam up ready to put to sea to catch the banyan african steamer four o'clock to-morrow morning. expense not to be considered.”
as the train crept out into the night, the butler of the gloomy house in russell square, who had finished the port, and was beginning to feel resigned, received a second shock. this came in the form of a carriage and pair, followed by a ring at the bell.
the man opened the door, and his fellow servitor of an eccentric class and generation stepped back on the door-step to let a young lady pass into the hall.
“mr. oscard?” she said curtly.
“left 'ome, miss,” replied the butler, stiffly conscious of walnut-peel on his waistcoat.
“how long ago?”
“a matter of half an hour, miss.”
millicent chyne, whose face was drawn and white, moved farther into the hall. seeing the dining-room door ajar, she passed into that stately apartment, followed by the butler.
“mr. oscard sent me this note,” she said, showing a crumpled paper, “saying that he was leaving for africa to-night. he gives no explanation. why has he gone to africa?”
“he received a telegram while he was at dinner, miss,” replied the butler, whose knowledge of the world indicated the approach of at least a sovereign. “he rose and threw down his napkin, miss. 'i'm goin' to africa,' he says. 'come and help me pack.'”
“did you see the telegram—by any chance?” asked miss chyne.
“well, miss, i didn't rightly read it.”
millicent had given way to a sudden panic on the receipt of guy's note. a telegram calling him to africa—calling with a voice which he obeyed with such alacrity that he had not paused to finish his dinner—could only mean that some disaster had happened—some disaster to jack meredith. and quite suddenly millicent chyne's world was emptied of all else but jack meredith. for a moment she forgot herself. she ran to the room where lady cantourne was affixing the family jewelry on her dress, and, showing the letter, said breathlessly that she must see guy oscard at once. lady cantourne, wise woman of the world that she was, said nothing. she merely finished her toilet, and, when the carriage was ready, they drove round by russell square.
“who was it from?” asked millicent.
“from a person named gordon, miss.”
“and what did it say?”
“well, miss, as i said before, i did not rightly see. but it seems that it said, 'come at once.' i saw that.”
“and what else? be quick, please.”
“i think there was mention of somebody bein' surrounded, miss. some name like denver, i think. no! wait a bit; it wasn't that; it was somebody else.”
finishing off the port had also meant beginning it, and the worthy butler's mind was not particularly clear.
“was there any mention of mr. oscard's partner, mr.—eh—meredith?” asked millicent, glancing at the clock.
“yes, miss, there was that name, but i don't rightly remember in what connection.”
“it didn't say that he—” millicent paused and drew in her breath with a jerk—“was dead, or anything like that?”
“oh, no, miss.”
“thank you. i—am sorry we missed mr. oscard.”
she turned and went back to lady cantourne, who was sitting in the carriage. and while she was dancing the second extra with the first comer at four o'clock the next morning, guy oscard was racing out of plymouth sound into the teeth of a fine, driving rain. on the bridge of the trembling tug-boat, by oscard's side, stood a keen-eyed channel pilot, who knew the tracks of the steamers up and down channel as a gamekeeper knows the hare-tracks across a stubble-field. moreover, the tug-boat caught the big steamer pounding down into the grey of the atlantic ocean, and in due time guy oscard landed on the beach at loango.
he had the telegram still in his pocket, and he went, not to maurice gordon's office, but to the bungalow.
jocelyn greeted him with a little inarticulate cry of joy.
“i did not think that you could possibly be here so soon,” she said.
“what news have you?” he asked, without pausing to explain. he was one of those men who are silenced by an unlimited capacity for prompt action.
“that,” she replied, handing him the note written by jack meredith to marie at msala.
guy oscard read it carefully.
“dated seven weeks last monday—nearly two months ago,” he muttered, half to himself.
he raised his head and looked out of the window. there were lines of anxiety round his eyes. jocelyn never took her glance from his face.
“nearly two months ago,” he repeated.
“but you will go?” she said—and something in her voice startled him.
“of course i will go,” he replied. he looked down into her face with a vague question in his quiet eyes; and who knows what he saw there? perhaps she was off her guard. perhaps she read this man aright and did not care.
with a certain slow hesitation he laid his hand on her arm. there was something almost paternal in his manner which was in keeping with his stature.
“moreover,” he went on, “i will get there in time. i have an immense respect for meredith. if he said that he could hold out for four months, i should say that he could hold out for six. there is no one like meredith, once he makes up his mind to take things seriously.”
it was not very well done, and she probably saw through it. she probably knew that he was as anxious as she was herself. but his very presence was full of comfort. it somehow brought a change to the moral atmosphere—a sense of purposeful direct simplicity which was new to the west african coast.
“i will send over to the factory for maurice,” said the girl. “he has been hard at work getting together your men. if your telegram had not come he was going up to the plateau himself.”
oscard looked slightly surprised. that did not sound like maurice gordon.
“i believe you are almost capable of going yourself,” said the big man with a slow smile.
“if i had been a man i should have been half-way there by this time.”
“where is durnovo?” he asked suddenly.
“i believe he is in loango. he has not been to this house for more than a fortnight; but maurice has heard that he is still somewhere in loango.”
jocelyn paused. there was an expression on guy oscard's face which she rather liked, while it alarmed her.
“it is not likely,” she went on, “that he will come here. i—i rather lost my temper with him, and said things which i imagine hurt his feelings.”
oscard nodded gravely.
“i'm rather afraid of doing that myself,” he said; “only it will not be his feelings.”
“i do not think,” she replied, “that it would be at all expedient to say or do anything at present. he must go with you to the plateau. afterwards—perhaps.”
oscard laughed quietly.
“ah,” he said, “that sounds like one of meredith's propositions. but he does not mean it any more than you do.”
“i do mean it,” replied jocelyn quietly. there is no hatred so complete, so merciless, as the hatred of a woman for one who has wronged the man she loves. at such times women do not pause to give fair play. they make no allowance.
jocelyn gordon found a sort of fearful joy in the anger of this self-contained englishman. it was an unfathomed mine of possible punishment over which she could in thought hold victor durnovo.
“nothing,” she went on, “could be too mean—nothing could be mean enough—to mete out to him in payment of his own treachery and cowardice.”
she went to a drawer in her writing-table and took from it an almanac.
“the letter you have in your hand,” she said, “was handed to mr. durnovo exactly a month ago by the woman at msala. from that time to this he has done nothing. he has simply abandoned mr. meredith.”
“he is in loango?” inquired oscard, with a premonitory sense of enjoyment in his voice.
“yes.”
“does he know that you have sent for me?”
“no,” replied jocelyn.
guy oscard smiled.
“i think i will go and look for him,” he said.
at dusk that same evening there was a singular incident in the bar-room of the only hotel in loango.
victor durnovo was there, surrounded by a few friends of antecedents and blood similar to his own. they were having a convivial time of it, and the consumption of whisky was greater than might be deemed discreet in such a climate as that of loango.
durnovo was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when the open doorway was darkened, and guy oscard stood before him. the half-breed's jaw dropped; the glass was set down again rather unsteadily on the zinc-covered counter.
“i want you,” said oscard.
there was a little pause, an ominous silence, and victor durnovo slowly followed oscard out of the room, leaving that ominous silence behind.
“i leave for msala to-night,” said oscard, when they were outside, “and you are coming with me.”
“i'll see you damned first!” replied durnovo, with a courage born of irish whisky.
guy oscard said nothing, but he stretched out his right hand suddenly. his fingers closed in the collar of victor durnovo's coat, and that parti-coloured scion of two races found himself feebly trotting through the one street of loango.
“le' go!” he gasped.
but the hand at his neck neither relinquished nor contracted. when they reached the beach the embarkation of the little army was going forward under maurice gordon's supervision. victor looked at gordon. he reflected over the trump card held in his hand, but he was too skilful to play it then.
