“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.
XI
A Compact
Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream.
“No one knows,” Victor Durnovo was in the habit of saying, “what is going on in the middle of Africa.”
And on this principle he acted.
“Ten miles above the camping-ground where we first met,” he had told Meredith, “you will find a village where I have my headquarters. There is quite a respectable house there, with—a—a woman to look after your wants. When you have fixed things up at Loango, and have arranged for the dhows to meet my steamer, take up all your men to this village—Msala is the name—and send the boats back. Wait there till we come.”
In due time the telegram came, via St. Paul de Loanda, announcing the fact that Oscard had agreed to join the expedition, and that Durnovo and he might be expected at Msala in one month from that time. It was not without a vague feeling of regret that Jack Meredith read this telegram. To be at Msala in a month with forty men and a vast load of provisions meant leaving Loango almost at once. And, strange though it may seem, he had become somewhat attached to the dreary West African town. The singular cosmopolitan society was entirely new to him; the life, taken as a life, almost unique. He knew that he had not outstayed his welcome. Maurice Gordon had taken care to assure him of that in his boisterous, hearty manner, savouring more of Harrow than of Eton, every morning at breakfast.
“Confound Durnovo!” he cried, when the telegram had been read aloud. “Confound him, with his energy and his businesslike habits! That means that you will have to leave us before long; and somehow it has got to be quite natural to see you come lounging in ten minutes late for most things, with an apology for Jocelyn, but none for me. We shall miss you, old chap.”
“Yes,” added Jocelyn, “we shall.”
She was busy with the cups, and spoke rather indifferently.
“So you’ve got Oscard?” continued Maurice. “I imagine he is a good man—tip-top shot and all that. I’ve never met him, but I have heard of him.”
“He is a gentleman, at all events,” said Meredith quietly; “I know that.”
Jocelyn was looking at him between the hibiscus flowers decorating the table.
“Is Mr. Durnovo going to be leader of the expedition?” she inquired casually, after a few moments’ silence; and Jack, looking up with a queer smile, met her glance for a moment.
“No,” he answered.
Maurice Gordon’s hearty laugh interrupted.
“Ha, ha!” he cried. “I wonder where the dickens you men are going to?”
“Up the Ogowe river,” replied Jack.
“No doubt. But what for? There is something mysterious about that river. Durnovo keeps his poor relations there, or something of that kind.”
“We are not going to look for them.”
“I suppose,” said Maurice, helping himself to marmalade, “that he has dropped upon some large deposit of ivory; that will turn out to be the solution of the mystery. It is the solution of most mysteries in this country. I wish I could solve the mysteries of ways and means and drop upon a large deposit of ivory, or spice, or precious stones. We should soon be out of this country, should we not, old girl?”
“I do not think we have much to complain of,” answered Jocelyn.
“No; you never do. Moreover, I do not suppose you would do so if you had the excuse.”
“Oh yes, I should, if I thought it would do any good.”
“Ah!” put in Meredith. “There speaks Philosophy—jam, please.”
“Or Resignation—that is strawberry and this is black currant.”
“Thanks, black currant. No—Philosophy. Resignation is the most loathsome of the virtues.”
“I can’t say I care for any of them very much,” put in Maurice.
“No; I thought you seemed to shun them,” said Jack, like a flash.
“Sharp! very sharp! Jocelyn, do you know what we called him at school?—the French nail; he was so very long and thin and sharp! I might add polished and strong, but we were not so polite in those days. Poor old
