“Not so soon as that,” he said; “but in time—in time.”
“Lucky beggar!” muttered Maurice Gordon, with a little sigh.
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Durnovo, with a sudden confidence begotten of Madeira, “that it’s Simiacine—that’s what it is. I can’t tell you more.”
“Simiacine,” repeated Gordon, fingering the stem of his wineglass and looking at him keenly between the candle-shades. “Yes. You’ve always been on its track, haven’t you?”
“In six months your godowns will be full of it—my Simiacine, my Simiacine.”
“By God, I wish I had a hand in it.”
Maurice Gordon pushed the decanter again—gently, almost surreptitiously.
“And so you may, someday. You help me and I’ll help you—that is my ticket. Reciprocity—reciprocity, my dear Maurice.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Can’t tell you now, but I will in good time—in my own time. Come, let’s join the ladies—eh? haha!”
But at this moment the servant brought in coffee, saying in his master’s ear that Miss Jocelyn had gone to bed with a slight headache.
XV
A Confidence
The spirits
Of coming things stride on before their issues.
There is nothing that brings men so close to each other as a common grievance or a common danger. Men who find pleasure in the same game or the same pursuit are drawn together by a common taste; but in the indulgence of it there is sure to arise, sooner or later, a spirit of competition. Now, this spirit, which is in most human affairs, is a new bond of union when men are fighting side by side against a common foe.
During the three days that followed Durnovo’s departure from Msala, Jack Meredith and Oscard learnt to know each other. These three days were as severe a test as could well be found; for courage, humanity, tenderness, loyalty, were by turns called forth by circumstance. Smallpox rages in Africa as it rages nowhere else in these days. The natives fight it or bow before it as before an ancient and deeply dreaded foe. It was nothing new to them, and it would have been easy enough for Jack and Oscard to prove to their own satisfaction that the presence of three white men at Msala was a danger to themselves and no advantage to the natives. It would have been very simple to abandon the river station, leaving there such men as were stricken down to care for each other. But such a thought never seemed to suggest itself.
The camp was moved across the river, where all who seemed strong and healthy were placed under canvas, awaiting further developments.
The infected were carried to a special camp set apart and guarded, and this work was executed almost entirely by the three Englishmen, aided by a few natives who had had the disease.
For three days these men went about with their lives literally in their hands, tending the sick, cheering the despondent, frightening the cowards into some semblance of self-respect and dignity. And during these three days, wherein they never took an organised meal or three consecutive hours of rest, Joseph, Meredith, and Oscard rose together to that height of manhood where master and servant, educated man and common soldier, stand equal before their Maker.
Owing to the promptness with which measures had been taken for isolating the affected, the terrible sickness did not spread. In all eleven men were stricken, and of these ten died within three days. The eleventh recovered, but eventually remained at Msala.
It was only on the evening of the third day that Jack and Guy found time to talk of the future. They had never left Durnovo’s house, and on this third day they found time to dine together.
“Do you think,” Oscard asked bluntly, when they were left alone to smoke, “that Durnovo knew what was the matter?”
“I am afraid that I have not the slightest doubt of it,” replied Jack lightly.
“And bolted?” suggested Oscard.
“And bolted.”
Guy Oscard gave a contemptuous little laugh, which had a deeper insult in it than he could have put into words.
“And what is to be done?” he inquired.
“Nothing. People in books would mount on a very high pinnacle of virtue and cast off Mr. Durnovo and all his works; but it is much more practical to make what use we can of him. That is a worldly-wise, nineteenth-century way of looking at it; we cannot do without him.”
The contemplativeness of nicotine was upon Guy Oscard.
“Umph!” he grunted. “It is rather disgusting,” he said, after a pause; “I hate dealing with cowards.”
“And I with fools. For everyday use, give me a coward by preference.”
“Yes, there is something in that. Still, I’d throw up the whole thing if—”
“So would I,” said Jack, turning sharply in his chair, “if—”
Oscard laughed curtly and waited.
“If,” continued Jack, “I could. But I am more or less bound to go on now. Such chances as this do not turn up every day; I cannot afford to let it go by. Truth is, I told—someone who shall be nameless—that I would make money to keep her in that state of life wherein her godfathers, etc., have placed her; and make that money I must.”
“That is about my position too,” said Guy Oscard, somewhat indistinctly, owing to the fact that he habitually smoked a thick-stemmed pipe.
“Is it? I’m glad of that. It gives us something in common to work for.”
“Yes.” Guy paused, and made a huge effort, finally conquering that taciturnity which was almost an affliction to him. “The reason I gave the other night to you and that chap Durnovo was honest enough, but I have another. I want to lie low for a few months, but I also want to make money. I’m as good as engaged to be married, and I find that I am
