With Edged Tools Part 13

She nodded in answer to the servant's salutation, and pa.s.sed 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 t.i.tle 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 a.s.similated 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sing traveller; he usually pa.s.ses by on the other side; but I am afraid there is nothing to arouse the smallest interest."

"But, Miss Gordon, I am not the pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sumed 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.