LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Allan Quatermain of course I have heard. The natives told me that you were trekking to those parts; and if you, sir, are one of Lord Mountford’s sons, oddly enough I think I must have known your father in my youth. Indeed I served with him in the Guards.”

      “How very strange,” said Anscombe. “He’s dead now and my brother is Lord Mountford. Do you like life here better than that in the Guards? I am sure I should.”

      “Both of them have their advantages,” he answered evasively, “of which, if, as I think, you are also a soldier, you can judge for yourself. But won’t you come up to the house? My daughter Heda is away, and my partner Mr. Rodd” (as he mentioned this name I saw a blue vein, which showed above his cheek bone, swell as though under pressure of some secret emotion) “is a retiring sort of a man—indeed some might think him sulky until they came to know him. Still, we can make you comfortable and even give you a decent bottle of wine.”

      “No, thank you very much,” I answered, “we must get back to the wagon or our servants will think that we have come to grief. Perhaps you will accept the wildebeeste if it is of any use to you.”

      “Very well,” he said in a voice that suggested regret struggling with relief. To the buck he made no allusion, perhaps because he considered that it was already his own property. “Do you know your way? I believe your wagon is camped out there to the east by what we call the Granite stream. If you follow this Kaffir path,” and he pointed to a track near by, “it will take you quite close.”

      “Where does the path run to?” I asked. “There are no kraals about, are there?”

      “Oh! to the Temple, as my daughter calls our house. My partner and I are labour agents, we recruit natives for the Kimberley Mines,” he said in explanation, adding, “Where do you propose to shoot?”

      I told him.

      “Isn’t that rather a risky district?” he said. “I think that Sekukuni will soon be giving more trouble, although there is a truce between him and the English. Still he might send a regiment to raid that way.”

      I wondered how our friend knew so much of Sekukuni’s possible intentions, but only answered that I was accustomed to deal with natives and did not fear them.

      “Ah!” he said, “well, you know your own business best. But if you should get into any difficulty, make straight for this place. The Basutos will not interfere with you here.”

      Again I wondered why the Basutos should look upon this particular spot as sacred, but thinking it wisest to ask no questions, I only answered—

      “Thank you very much. We’ll bear your invitation in mind, Mr.—”

      “Marnham.”

      “Marnham,” I repeated after him. “Good-bye and many thanks for your kindness.”

      “One question,” broke in Anscombe, “if you will not think me rude. What is the name of the architect who designed that most romantic-looking house of yours which seems to be built of marble?”

      “My daughter designed it, or at least I think she copied it from some old drawing of a ruin. Also it is marble; there’s a whole hill of the stuff not a hundred yards from the door, so it was cheaper to use than anything else. I hope you will come and see it on your way back, though it is not as fine as it appears from a distance. It would be very pleasant after all these years to talk to an English gentleman again.”

      Then we parted, I rather offended because he did not seem to include me in the description, he calling after us—

      “Stick close to the path through the patch of big trees, for the ground is rather swampy there and it’s getting dark.”

      Presently we came to the place he mentioned where the timber, although scattered, was quite large for South Africa, of the yellow-wood species, and interspersed wherever the ground was dry with huge euphorbias, of which the tall finger-like growths and sad grey colouring looked unreal and ghostlike in the waning light. Following the advice given to us, we rode in single file along the narrow path, fearing lest otherwise we should tumble into some bog hole, until we came to higher land covered with the scattered thorns of the country.

      “Did that bush give you any particular impression?” asked Anscombe a minute or two later.

      “Yes,” I answered, “it gave me the impression that we might catch fever there. See the mist that lies over it,” and turning in my saddle I pointed with the rifle in my hand to what looked like a mass of cotton wool over which, without permeating it, hung the last red glow of sunset, producing a curious and indeed rather unearthly effect. “I expect that thousands of years ago there was a lake yonder, which is why trees grow so big in the rich soil.”

      “You are curiously mundane, Quatermain,” he answered. “I ask you of spiritual impressions and you dilate to me of geological formations and the growth of timber. You felt nothing in the spiritual line?”

      “I felt nothing except a chill,” I answered, for I was tired and hungry. “What the devil are you driving at?”

      “Have you got that flask of Hollands about you, Quatermain?”

      “Oh! those are the spirits you are referring to,” I remarked with sarcasm as I handed it to him.

      He took a good pull and replied—

      “Not at all, except in the sense that bad spirits require good spirits to correct them, as the Bible teaches. To come to facts,” he added in a changed voice, “I have never been in a place that depressed me more than that thrice accursed patch of bush.”

      “Why did it depress you?” I asked, studying him as well as I could in the fading light. To tell the truth I feared lest he had knocked his head when the wildebeeste upset him, and was suffering from delayed concussion.

      “Can’t tell you, Quatermain. I don’t look like a criminal, do I? Well, I entered those trees feeling a fairly honest man, and I came out of them feeling like a murderer. It was as though something terrible had happened to me there; it was as though I had killed someone there. Ugh!” and he shivered and took another pull at the Hollands.

      “What bosh!” I said. “Besides, even if it were to come true, I am sorry to say I’ve killed lots of men in the way of business and they don’t bother me overmuch.”

      “Did you ever kill one to win a woman?”

      “Certainly not. Why, that would be murder. How can you ask me such a thing? But I have killed several to win cattle,” I reflected aloud, remembering my expedition with Saduko against the chief Bangu, and some other incidents in my career.

      “I appreciate the difference, Quatermain. If you kill for cows, it is justifiable homicide; if you kill for women, it is murder.”

      “Yes,” I replied, “that is how it seems to work out in Africa. You see, women are higher in the scale of creation than cows, therefore crimes committed for their sake are enormously greater than those committed for cows, which just makes the difference between justifiable homicide and murder.”

      “Good lord! what an argument,” he exclaimed and relapsed into silence. Had he been accustomed to natives and their ways he would have understood the point much better than he did, though I admit it is difficult to explain.

      In due course we reached the wagon without further trouble. While we were shielding our pipes after an excellent supper I asked Anscombe his impressions of Mr. Marnham.

      “Queer cove, I think,” he answered. “Been a gentleman, too, and still keeps the manners, which isn’t strange if he is one of the Marnhams, for they are a good family. I wonder he mentioned having served with my father.”

      “It slipped out of him. Men who live a lot alone are apt to be surprised into saying things they regret afterwards, as I noticed he did. But why do you wonder?”

      “Because

Скачать книгу