The White Hunter

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Well, I won’t see that one in the Tabernacle,” she murmured and then went back to her letter.

  And so I spend my days writing letters for Jeanine and wandering the streets of London. She spends her days drinking and going to parties with Clive Winters. I have not spoken of this to anyone but you, for it would be wrong to expose the faults of another. But I am asking you to pray for both of them, Jeb. They are engaged in an immoral affair, and it can come to no good. It grieves my heart, for they are both talented people full of life and ability, and yet they can see nothing but the pleasures of the moment.

  Annie continued to write for over an hour until she had filled several pages and then finally closed her letter with a wish that Jeb would continue to write. She folded it up, put the writing materials in the leather bag, then rose and walked past the lions. She looked up at the massive face of one and thought of what the young man had said. “So, you roar when a virgin passes, do you? Well, so much for that myth.” She laughed aloud and made her way past the lions, bracing against the stout March wind.

  ****

  A contrary puff of wind caught the triangular mainsail of the small boat, causing Clive Winters to call out, “Duck, Jeanine!” As the boom swept across the cockpit, he reached forward and shoved her head down and laughed. “You have to be a better sailor than that, sweetheart.”

  White spray, salty and tangy, blew against Jeanine’s face. She licked her lips and savored the cold wind and the speed of the boat as it skimmed over the surface of the gray waters. “Faster! Faster!” she cried.

  Clive Winters laughed. “If we put up more sail, it’ll tear the sticks out of her. Come over and sit by me.” He had taken his seat at the tiller, and Jeanine obediently went and sat beside him. She put her arms around his chest, and he embraced her with his free arm. She lifted her face and he kissed her wet, salty lips. There was a possessiveness in her that he had never ceased to delight in, and now as he held her close, he forgot the sea and the wind and the white clouds above and said what he had thought often but had never said before, “I want you to marry me, Jeanine.”

  The words caught Jeanine off guard. She felt more affection for this man than any she had ever known. But as she looked into his blue eyes, her lips drew tightly together and she removed her arms. Pulling her legs up, she hugged them in a strange embrace. She did not answer but kept her eyes out on the horizon as level and straight as a knife edge. The small whitecaps dotted and splashed against the depths of the sea as she kept her silence.

  “You’re not surprised, are you?” Clive asked. He had been taken aback by her reaction, and now he reached out and tried to turn her toward him, but she resisted. “What’s the matter, Jeanine?”

  “I could never marry you, Clive—or anyone else for that matter.”

  “What are you talking about? You must marry.”

  “Why must I?”

  “Because it’s what women do. You’re not a plaster saint, Jeanine. You need a man.”

  “I have a man, Clive.” Jeanine turned and there was a strange expression in her violet eyes. Her back was straight now, and she studied the clean sweep of Clive Winters’ features. He was not really a handsome man, but there was a goodness in his face, perhaps what had drawn her to him in the first place. She had known many men who were not good, but she knew that in Clive Winters resided honor and dignity, even nobility, something she had almost ceased to believe in. He was an enigma to her in a way, and long before this, she had decided that she would enjoy his love and affection, but that it could never come to more than that.

  “I could never marry anyone,” she repeated quietly.

  Clive shook his head. The wind blew his fair blond hair into his eyes, and he brushed it away impatiently. All the months he had known her, he had expected that his affections would change. He had expected that it would be a thing of the moment, but now he could not imagine life without her. As he studied her classic features, he realized he knew very little about her, except that she was beautiful and wealthy and that she had stirred a passion in him that no other woman had ever found. “You’re talking nonsense, Jeanine,” he said, his voice quiet and raised only above the keening cry of the winds that whistled through the cordage and the sails and the slapping of the water against the sides of the small boat. “I love you and I want you to be my wife.”

  Jeanine shook her head firmly. “You don’t know me,” she said finally. “I’d make you absolutely miserable.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. We’ve had an affair, but we have nothing in common, Clive.”

  “I don’t believe that. Why, we spend hours talking. I’d rather be with you than anyone I know. I never get tired of your company.”

  “Then enjoy it. Let’s take what we have. What do the poets say? Carpe diem.”

  Clive shook his head adamantly. “ ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’ I don’t think that tips our case. I want to grow old with you. I’ve been in love with you for months, Jeanine.”

  “And what does your family say about that?”

  Clive blinked, for it had been a difficult time for him. He felt Jeanine’s gaze steadily upon him and shifted uncomfortably. The boat rose and fell, and he moved the rudder to meet the waves and cast a careful eye on the sails, then finally he turned to her and shrugged. “Well, as you know, they’re not enamored of the idea.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Jeanine continued quickly. “You’re an Englishman, Clive. You have obligations here and your life is here, but I’m American and I’ll be leaving here.”

  “You could stay. You could become a citizen.”

  “No. My life is in America—and besides, you’re the only son. You’ll want children, boys to bear your name. I’ll never have children.”

  Clive was struck with that statement. It was something that had never occurred to him. He had never met a woman who did not want children, a family, or a husband, and he set himself to convince her. But it all came to no avail. No matter what he said, she would shake her head, and finally he argued, “You’ll want children someday. You don’t want to grow old alone.”

  Jeanine suddenly pulled herself away from him. She moved over to the seat that was built into the side of the boat and braced herself against the rise and fall of the small vessel. The wind blew her hair, for she had loosed it, and now she put her hands up to hold it still and free from her eyes. “I don’t want children and you do, and moreover, Clive, I couldn’t promise to be true and faithful to you.”

  “Jeanine!”

  “It’s true. I’ve had men before you, and I’ll probably have others. Besides that, you’re religious and I’m not.”

  Clive stared at her. “What is that supposed to mean? I’ve been having an affair with you for months. That’s how much my religion means to me.”

  Jeanine suddenly smiled. “And your conscience has been cutting you to pieces, hasn’t it, Clive? You think I didn’t know? You think I didn’t see how at times you were absolutely miserable because the way we’ve been living together has gone against your convictions? And remember the time I did go to church with you? I watched your face, and I saw something there that told me that you know in your heart you’re still convinced that sin is sin. Well, I don’t believe that.”

  “But if we married, that would make it all right.”

  “Marrying you wouldn’t change what’s inside of me, Clive.”

  “Don’t you love me at all, Jeanine?”

  Jeanine Quintana turned her eyes directly on those of Clive Winters. Her voice was clear and there was a hardness in her. “Clive, I feel an affection for you that I’ve never felt for any man. I like you a great deal.” She hesitated for one moment, holding his glance. “But I’ll never love anyone—except myself. That’s the way I am, Clive, and I won’t change. I’m selfish to the bone.”

  A gust of wind threw the sail around again, and for the moment Clive was busy maneuvering the small boat. When he got control of it, he saw that Jeanin
e was tying her hair back.

  “Let’s go back. I’ve had enough sailing for one day,” she said quietly.

  “All right.”

  “And Clive—let’s not see each other anymore.”

  Winters shook his head. “I won’t agree to that. There’s always a chance you can change.”

  “There’s no chance for us, Clive. You’ve got a life here, and I’m interfering with it. I hope you’ll always remember it, but it has to be over. There’s nothing in the future for the two of us.”

  “I’m going to keep on seeing you, Jeanine.”

  “You’ll get hurt, Clive.”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Winters again threw the tiller over and set the sails, and the two said nothing as the boat glided across the water at a greater speed. Both of them knew that things would never be the same again.

  ****

  One of Annie’s chief delights and pleasures came from an elderly ex-missionary named Mary Weatherford. She had encountered Mary at a Salvation Army station and was delighted to discover that the woman had served the Masai people in Africa. The two had become very close friends, and Annie went three times a week to take lessons in the Maa language. Mary had told her, “That’s what Masai means. ‘People who speak Maa.’ ”

  Mary Weatherford was a small woman of seventy but looked at least ten years younger. She had silvery hair, bright brown eyes, and a complexion that had been tanned so deeply by the African sun that it still remained, even though she had been in England for more than ten years. Now as Annie sat before her, she was pronouncing a phrase very carefully. Oldoinyo le Engai.

  “Now you say it, Annie.”

  Annie struggled with the words, but there was a tonal quality in the older woman’s voice that she could not get. “What does it mean, Mary?”

  “It means the mountain of God. Engai is God to the Masai.”

  “You mean the Christian God?”

  “They don’t make much difference between gods. Engai is the god that they know.”

  “I can’t believe I found you here, Mary,” Annie smiled warmly. “It means so much to me to hear of the people there, and it’s made me more anxious than ever to go and share the Gospel with them.”

  Mary Weatherford smiled fondly at the young woman. “It won’t be like you think it is. It never is. It wasn’t for me.”

  “What do you mean, Mary?”

  “Well, I mean that you probably picture yourself talking to people about Jesus all day long. But most of the time you’ll spend simply learning how to stay alive, how to survive the climate, how to kill the bugs that will eat you alive.” Mary smiled. “You’ll probably spend as much time fighting snakes as you do preaching the Gospel.”

  “I don’t care. I’m so glad to have a teacher, and that I’ll be able to speak their language when I go.”

  “But you may not go to the Masai people. You might go to another part of Africa.”

  “I don’t think so, Mary. I think God has put you in my path for this very reason, so that I can begin to learn the language and be a part of their lives.”

  Mary leaned forward and stroked Annie’s arm. “You’re just like I was, dearie. I couldn’t wait to get there, and I would be there still if my health had held out. Even after I lost John, I stayed by myself. I became more Masai than I was English, but bless your heart. You’ll be going. I feel that God is in it, and that He’s going to anoint you for powerful service.”

  “Tell me some more words. I’ll make a list of them.”

  “All right. The word for good-bye is Aia.”

  “Aia.” Annie wrote the word down.

  “The word for big is Mkubwa. It’s spelled with an ‘M,’ but it’s pronunced Kub-wa.”

  “Mkubwa. What about the word for lion?”

  “Simba.”

  For over an hour the two women studied, and then soberly, Mary said, “They call Africa the white man’s graveyard. The white woman’s, too. Many of the missionaries that went over with me are still there. They died for their faith, some of them after a very short time. I’ll be praying that you’ll have a long, fruitful ministry among the Masai people, Annie. It’s a little bit like I would be going back myself.” Mary looked at her fondly and shook her head. “It would be better if you were married, Annie. It’s hard for a woman to get along without a man in Africa.”

  Annie flushed slightly. “I’m not thinking about that.”

  “Come now, all young women think about that! Don’t you, just a little bit, have a man that is in your mind and in your heart and is even there now?”

  The sudden thought of John Winslow leaped into Annie Rogers’ mind. Something of this showed in her face and she dropped her eyes, saying, “Well, I have thought of one man, but nothing came of it.”

  “Well, God says, ‘No good thing will I withhold from him who walketh uprightly.’ So I guess you can change thing to man.” Mary laughed and said, “I’ll pray with you, dearie, that God will send a strong man to be by your side.”

  Annie smiled and the lesson continued. Finally she left the Salvation Army station and made her way home. She was surprised to find Jeanine there and spoke to her pleasantly. “I’ve just had another lesson in the Masai language.”

  “What do you do all the time that you’re not working for me?” she asked. Annie could tell Jeanine seemed restless. There seemed to be an irritability about her and a dissatisfaction.

  “Oh, I go to the library. I go to the British Museum—and three times a week I go to visit the poor and help with the Salvation Army work. I’m going today, as a matter of fact.”

  Jeanine Quintana suddenly gave her shoulders an impatient shake. “I’ll go with you,” she announced impetuously.

  A sudden premonition of disaster came to Annie. She could not imagine what the poor people would think of this wealthy, ostentatious woman, and she said, “I don’t think you would like it, Jeanine. It’s very rough.”

  “I want to see what you’re doing.”

  Annie argued for some time, but she had long ago learned that whatever Jeanine decided for herself would be done one way or another. “All right,” she finally surrendered, “but please wear very plain clothes. You’ll put people off if you wear expensive clothes.”

  Jeanine laughed. “I’ll have to go out and buy some.”

  “No. Just something less—well, less ornate than what you’re wearing now.”

  Jeanine suddenly seemed to find the whole idea amusing. She searched through her wardrobe with Annie’s help and finally found a plain outfit—a lightweight serge dress in a muted gray. It had lace ruffles and a choker collar but was not overly frilled. “Do you think this is subdued enough?”

  “That’ll do fine, Jeanine. Come along, if you’re ready.”

  The two women took a carriage at Jeanine’s insistence, and Annie directed the driver to the lower East Side of London in the Soho district. It was a dingy neighborhood, the streets lined with grimy tenements. The air had grown still, as if a storm was coming, and overhead the sky was gray with black clouds scudding along.

  As they descended from the carriage, both women picked up large baskets that Annie had prepared. She led the way to a tenement that sat almost on the street and was greeted by cries of children, dirty urchins who ran up and swarmed around her.

  “Miss Annie! Miss Annie! Did you bring us sweets?”

  “Indeed I did, Cecilia, and another lady has come. Jeanine, maybe you’d like to give the children some sweets.”

  It was a new experience, that trip, for Jeanine Quintana. She lived in a world far removed from poverty, so the filthy streets and the dirty hands and faces of the children were a shock to her. Then as Annie led her up the crooked stairways to the third floor, her nose was assailed by the smell of cabbage, sweat, human waste, and decay. She braced herself against it, and when they went inside one of the doors, admitted by a small girl no more than four and as dirty as those below, Jeanine’s eyes swept the room and she saw what poverty was truly like. The
room was small with only one tiny window covered with dirty and torn curtains. The floors were bare wood, caked with dirt and mud, and the walls were a dark gray, with the paint peeling off in large pieces, revealing a much lighter color. An old broken-down and dirty sofa was in the middle of the room, and a small table with four mismatched chairs stood over to one side where the stove was. The chairs were missing back supports, had rags wrapped around the legs that were broken, and the seats were chipped and cracked. Only one small oil lamp placed on the table brought light to the dingy room, and a simple makeshift bed stood in the far corner.

  Annie went to the bed over beside the wall and said cheerfully, “Well, Alice, how do I find you today?”

  “Not too well, Miss Annie.”

  The speaker was a frail, thin, almost emaciated woman. The rags that she used for covers were filthy, and her hair was stiff with dirt.

  “Well, I’ve come to do a little cleaning, and we’ll start with you,” Annie said.

  Feeling completely out of place, Jeanine watched as Annie removed Alice’s soiled clothing and cleaned her, and finally washed her hair. She continued to watch as Annie dressed the poor woman with a new nightgown and then stood back.

  “Now, we’re going to do a little cleaning here, and we brought some fruit and some fresh meat. I’ll cook you a bit of it, or perhaps you’d like to do that, Miss Quintana.”

  “Oh . . . yes. I’ll do my best.” Jeanine went over to the small stove and found only a few pieces of coal. She managed to start a fire, and although she was no cook, she did try.

  The two stayed for over two hours, and when they finally went outside, Jeanine took a deep breath as they got back into the carriage. “How do you stand it, Annie?” she moaned. “I couldn’t do it at all. I’ll pay for the food, but I could never wash anybody like that.”

  Annie turned to her and spoke quietly. “I couldn’t do it either if I didn’t have Jesus in my heart. He loves that woman and those children, and I love them, too, through Him.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” Jeanine shook her head, her lips drawn tightly together.