“A’ht was a Mangani,” replied Meriem, “and Korak a Tarmangani.”
“And what, pray, might a Mangani be, and a Tarmangani?”
The girl laughed.
“You are a Tarmangani,” she replied. “The Mangani are covered with hair—you would call them apes.”
“Then Korak was a white man?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And he was—ah—your—er—your--?” He paused, for he found it rather difficult to go on with that line of questioning while the girl’s clear, beautiful eyes were looking straight into his.
“My what?” insisted Meriem, far too unsophisticated in her unspoiled innocence to guess what the Hon. Morison was driving at.
“Why—ah—your brother?” he stumbled.
“No, Korak was not my brother,” she replied.
“Was he your husband, then?” he finally blurted.
Far from taking offense, Meriem broke into a merry laugh.
“My husband!” she cried. “Why how old do you think I am? I am too young to have a husband. I had never thought of such a thing. Korak was—why--,” and now she hesitated, too, for she never before had attempted to analyse the relationship that existed between herself and Korak—“why, Korak was just Korak,” and again she broke into a gay laugh as she realized the illuminating quality of her description.
Looking at her and listening to her the man beside her could not believe that depravity of any sort or degree entered into the girl’s nature, yet he wanted to believe that she had not been virtuous, for otherwise his task was less a sinecure—the Hon. Morison was not entirely without conscience.
For several days the Hon. Morison made no appreciable progress toward the consummation of his scheme. Sometimes he almost abandoned it for he found himself time and again wondering how slight might be the provocation necessary to trick him into making a bona-fide offer of marriage to Meriem if he permitted himself to fall more deeply in love with her, and it was difficult to see her daily and not love her. There was a quality about her which, all unknown to the Hon. Morison, was making his task an extremely difficult one—it was that quality of innate goodness and cleanness which is a good girl’s stoutest bulwark and protection—an impregnable barrier that only degeneracy has the effrontery to assail. The Hon. Morison Baynes would never be considered a degenerate.
He was sitting with Meriem upon the verandah one evening after the others had retired. Earlier they had been playing tennis—a game in which the Hon. Morison shone to advantage, as, in truth, he did in most all manly sports. He was telling Meriem stories of London and Paris, of balls and banquets, of the wonderful women and their wonderful gowns, of the pleasures and pastimes of the rich and powerful. The Hon. Morison was a past master in the art of insidious boasting. His egotism was never flagrant or tiresome—he was never crude in it, for crudeness was a plebeianism that the Hon. Morison studiously avoided, yet the impression derived by a listener to the Hon. Morison was one that was not at all calculated to detract from the glory of the house of Baynes, or from that of its representative.
Meriem was entranced. His tales were like fairy stories to this little jungle maid. The Hon. Morison loomed large and wonderful and magnificent in her mind’s eye. He fascinated her, and when he drew closer to her after a short silence and took her hand she thrilled as one might thrill beneath the touch of a deity—a thrill of exaltation not unmixed with fear.
He bent his lips close to her ear.
“Meriem!” he whispered. “My little Meriem! May I hope to have the right to call you ‘my little Meriem’?”
The girl turned wide eyes upward to his face; but it was in shadow. She trembled but she did not draw away. The man put an arm about her and drew her closer.
“I love you!” he whispered.
She did not reply. She did not know what to say. She knew nothing of love. She had never given it a thought; but she did know that it was very nice to be loved, whatever it meant. It was nice to have people kind to one. She had known so little of kindness or affection.
“Tell me,” he said, “that you return my love.”
His lips came steadily closer to hers. They had almost touched when a vision of Korak sprang like a miracle before her eyes. She saw Korak’s face close to hers, she felt his lips hot against hers, and then for the first time in her life she guessed what love meant. She drew away, gently.
“I am not sure,” she said, “that I love you. Let us wait. There is plenty of time. I am too young to marry yet, and I am not sure that I should be happy in London or Paris—they rather frighten me.”
How easily and naturally she had connected his avowal of love with the idea of marriage! The Hon. Morison was perfectly sure that he had not mentioned marriage—he had been particularly careful not to do so. And then she was not sure that she loved him! That, too, came rather in the nature of a shock to his vanity. It seemed incredible that this little barbarian should have any doubts whatever as to the desirability of the Hon. Morison Baynes.
The first flush of passion cooled, the Hon. Morison was enabled to reason more logically. The start had been all wrong. It would be better now to wait and prepare her mind gradually for the only proposition which his exalted estate would permit him to offer her. He would go slow. He glanced down at the girl’s profile. It was bathed in the silvery light of the great tropic moon. The Hon. Morison Baynes wondered if it were to be so easy a matter to “go slow.” She was most alluring.
Meriem rose. The vision of Korak was still before her.
“Good night,” she said. “It is almost too beautiful to leave,” she waved her hand in a comprehensive gesture which took in the starry heavens, the great moon, the broad, silvered plain, and the dense shadows in the distance, that marked the jungle. “Oh, how I love it!”
“You would love London more,” he said earnestly. “And London would love you. You would be a famous beauty in any capital of Europe. You would have the world at your feet, Meriem.”
“Good night!” she repeated, and left him.
The Hon. Morison selected a cigarette from his crested case, lighted it, blew a thin line of blue smoke toward the moon, and smiled.
Chapter 18
Meriem and Bwana were sitting on the verandah together the following day when a horseman appeared in the distance riding across the plain toward the bungalow. Bwana shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out toward the oncoming rider. He was puzzled. Strangers were few in Central Africa. Even the blacks for a distance of many miles in every direction were well known to him. No white man came within a hundred miles that word of his coming did not reach Bwana long before the stranger. His every move was reported to the big Bwana—just what animals he killed and how many of each species, how he killed them, too, for Bwana would not permit the use of prussic acid or strychnine; and how he treated his “boys.”
Several European sportsmen had been turned back to the coast by the big Englishman’s orders because of unwarranted cruelty to their black followers, and one, whose name had long been heralded in civilized communities as that of a great sportsman, was driven from Africa with orders never to return when Bwana found that his big bag of fourteen lions had been made by the diligent use of poisoned bait.
The result was that all good sportsmen and all the natives loved and respected him. His word was law where there had never been law before. There was scarce a head man from coast to coast who would not heed the big Bwana’s commands in preference to those of the hunters who employed them, and so it was easy to turn back any undesirable stranger—Bwana had simply to threaten to order his boys to desert him.
But there was evidently one who had slipped into the country unheralded. Bwana could not imagine who the approaching horseman might be. After the manner of frontier hospitality the globe round he met the newcomer at the gate, welcoming him even before he had dismounted. He saw a tall, well knit man of thirty or over, blonde of hair and smooth shaven. There was a tantalizing familiarity about him that convinced Bwana that he should be ab
le to call the visitor by name, yet he was unable to do so. The newcomer was evidently of Scandinavian origin—both his appearance and accent denoted that. His manner was rough but open. He made a good impression upon the Englishman, who was wont to accept strangers in this wild and savage country at their own valuation, asking no questions and assuming the best of them until they proved themselves undeserving of his friendship and hospitality.
“It is rather unusual that a white man comes unheralded,” he said, as they walked together toward the field into which he had suggested that the traveler might turn his pony. “My friends, the natives, keep us rather well-posted.”
“It is probably due to the fact that I came from the south,” explained the stranger, “that you did not hear of my coming. I have seen no village for several marches.”
“No, there are none to the south of us for many miles,” replied Bwana. “Since Kovudoo deserted his country I rather doubt that one could find a native in that direction under two or three hundred miles.”
Bwana was wondering how a lone white man could have made his way through the savage, unhospitable miles that lay toward the south. As though guessing what must be passing through the other’s mind, the stranger vouchsafed an explanation.
“I came down from the north to do a little trading and hunting,” he said, “and got way off the beaten track. My head man, who was the only member of the safari who had ever before been in the country, took sick and died. We could find no natives to guide us, and so I simply swung back straight north. We have been living on the fruits of our guns for over a month. Didn’t have an idea there was a white man within a thousand miles of us when we camped last night by a water hole at the edge of the plain. This morning I started out to hunt and saw the smoke from your chimney, so I sent my gun bearer back to camp with the good news and rode straight over here myself. Of course I’ve heard of you—everybody who comes into Central Africa does—and I’d be mighty glad of permission to rest up and hunt around here for a couple of weeks.”
“Certainly,” replied Bwana. “Move your camp up close to the river below my boys’ camp and make yourself at home.”
They had reached the verandah now and Bwana was introducing the stranger to Meriem and My Dear, who had just come from the bungalow’s interior.
“This is Mr. Hanson,” he said, using the name the man had given him. “He is a trader who has lost his way in the jungle to the south.”
My Dear and Meriem bowed their acknowledgments of the introduction. The man seemed rather ill at ease in their presence. His host attributed this to the fact that his guest was unaccustomed to the society of cultured women, and so found a pretext to quickly extricate him from his seemingly unpleasant position and lead him away to his study and the brandy and soda which were evidently much less embarrassing to Mr. Hanson.
When the two had left them Meriem turned toward My Dear.
“It is odd,” she said, “but I could almost swear that I had known Mr. Hanson in the past. It is odd, but quite impossible,” and she gave the matter no further thought.
Hanson did not accept Bwana’s invitation to move his camp closer to the bungalow. He said his boys were inclined to be quarrelsome, and so were better off at a distance; and he, himself, was around but little, and then always avoided coming into contact with the ladies. A fact which naturally aroused only laughing comment on the rough trader’s bashfulness. He accompanied the men on several hunting trips where they found him perfectly at home and well versed in all the finer points of big game hunting. Of an evening he often spent much time with the white foreman of the big farm, evidently finding in the society of this rougher man more common interests than the cultured guests of Bwana possessed for him. So it came that his was a familiar figure about the premises by night. He came and went as he saw fit, often wandering along in the great flower garden that was the especial pride and joy of My Dear and Meriem. The first time that he had been surprised there he apologized gruffly, explaining that he had always been fond of the good old blooms of northern Europe which My Dear had so successfully transplanted in African soil.
Was it, though, the ever beautiful blossoms of hollyhocks and phlox that drew him to the perfumed air of the garden, or that other infinitely more beautiful flower who wandered often among the blooms beneath the great moon—the black-haired, suntanned Meriem?
For three weeks Hanson had remained. During this time he said that his boys were resting and gaining strength after their terrible ordeals in the untracked jungle to the south; but he had not been as idle as he appeared to have been. He divided his small following into two parties, entrusting the leadership of each to men whom he believed that he could trust. To them he explained his plans and the rich reward that they would win from him if they carried his designs to a successful conclusion. One party he moved very slowly northward along the trail that connects with the great caravan routes entering the Sahara from the south. The other he ordered straight westward with orders to halt and go into permanent camp just beyond the great river which marks the natural boundary of the country that the big Bwana rightfully considers almost his own.
To his host he explained that he was moving his safari slowly toward the north—he said nothing of the party moving westward. Then, one day, he announced that half his boys had deserted, for a hunting party from the bungalow had come across his northerly camp and he feared that they might have noticed the reduced numbers of his following.
And thus matters stood when, one hot night, Meriem, unable to sleep, rose and wandered out into the garden. The Hon. Morison had been urging his suit once more that evening, and the girl’s mind was in such a turmoil that she had been unable to sleep.
The wide heavens about her seemed to promise a greater freedom from doubt and questioning. Baynes had urged her to tell him that she loved him. A dozen times she thought that she might honestly give him the answer that he demanded. Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead she had come to believe, since otherwise he would have sought her out. She did not know that he had even better reason to believe her dead, and that it was because of that belief he had made no effort to find her after his raid upon the village of Kovudoo.
Behind a great flowering shrub Hanson lay gazing at the stars and waiting. He had lain thus and there many nights before. For what was he waiting, or for whom? He heard the girl approaching, and half raised himself to his elbow. A dozen paces away, the reins looped over a fence post, stood his pony.
Meriem, walking slowly, approached the bush behind which the waiter lay. Hanson drew a large bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and rose stealthily to his knees. A pony neighed down at the corrals. Far out across the plain a lion roared. Hanson changed his position until he squatted upon both feet, ready to come erect quickly.
Again the pony neighed—this time closer. There was the sound of his body brushing against shrubbery. Hanson heard and wondered how the animal had gotten from the corral, for it was evident that he was already in the garden. The man turned his head in the direction of the beast. What he saw sent him to the ground, huddled close beneath the shrubbery—a man was coming, leading two ponies.
Meriem heard now and stopped to look and listen. A moment later the Hon. Morison Baynes drew near, the two saddled mounts at his heels.
Meriem looked up at him in surprise. The Hon. Morison grinned sheepishly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he explained, “and was going for a bit of a ride when I chanced to see you out here, and I thought you’d like to join me. Ripping good sport, you know, night riding. Come on.”
Meriem laughed. The adventure appealed to her.
“All right,” she said.
Hanson swore beneath his breath. The two led their horses from the garden to the gate and through it. There they discovered Hanson’s mount.
“Why here’s the trader’s pony,” remarked Baynes.
“He’s probably down visiting with the foreman,” said Meriem.
“Pretty late for him, isn
’t it?” remarked the Hon. Morison. “I’d hate to have to ride back through that jungle at night to his camp.”
As though to give weight to his apprehensions the distant lion roared again. The Hon. Morison shivered and glanced at the girl to note the effect of the uncanny sound upon her. She appeared not to have noticed it.
A moment later the two had mounted and were moving slowly across the moon-bathed plain. The girl turned her pony’s head straight toward the jungle. It was in the direction of the roaring of the hungry lion.
“Hadn’t we better steer clear of that fellow?” suggested the Hon. Morison. “I guess you didn’t hear him.”
“Yes, I heard him,” laughed Meriem. “Let’s ride over and call on him.”
The Hon. Morison laughed uneasily. He didn’t care to appear at a disadvantage before this girl, nor did he care, either, to approach a hungry lion too closely at night. He carried his rifle in his saddle boot; but moonlight is an uncertain light to shoot by, nor ever had he faced a lion alone—even by day. The thought gave him a distinct nausea. The beast ceased his roaring now. They heard him no more and the Hon. Morison gained courage accordingly. They were riding down wind toward the jungle. The lion lay in a little swale to their right. He was old. For two nights he had not fed, for no longer was his charge as swift or his spring as mighty as in the days of his prime when he spread terror among the creatures of his wild domain. For two nights and days he had gone empty, and for long time before that he had fed only upon carrion. He was old; but he was yet a terrible engine of destruction.
At the edge of the forest the Hon. Morison drew rein. He had no desire to go further. Numa, silent upon his padded feet, crept into the jungle beyond them. The wind, now, was blowing gently between him and his intended prey. He had come a long way in search of man, for even in his youth he had tasted human flesh and while it was poor stuff by comparison with eland and zebra it was less difficult to kill. In Numa’s estimation man was a slow-witted, slow-footed creature which commanded no respect unless accompanied by the acrid odor which spelled to the monarch’s sensitive nostrils the great noise and the blinding flash of an express rifle.
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