Читать книгу The People of the River - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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THE house of De Silva, Mackiney and Company is not so well known as, say, the Rockefeller or the house of Marshall Field; nor does it inspire the same confidence in circles of world-finance as, say, the house of Rothschild or Pierpoint Morgan. Yet on the coast De Silva and Mackiney (where they dug up the last ethnological abomination, I know not) held a position analogous to all the houses I have named in combination. They were the Rothschilds, the Marshall Fields, the Pierpoint Morgans, of that particular coast. It is said that they put up a proposition that they should coin their own money, but a conservative government—with a small "c"—politely declined to sanction the suggestion.

They had a finger in all the pies that were baked in that part of the world. They had interests in steamship companies, controlled banks, financed exploration and exploitation companies, helped in the creation of railways, floated gold mines, but before and above all, they sold things to the natives and received in exchange other things of infinitely greater value than they gave. The trading store and the trading caravan were the foundation of the house of De Silva and Mackiney—De Silva had long since retired from the business, and was the Marquis de Something-or-other of the Kingdom of Portugal—and even in the days of its greater prosperity native truck was its long suit.

A little steamer would come slowly to a sandy beach, where the only sign of civilisation was a tin-roofed shanty and a flagstaff. Great hogsheads bound together by rope would be cast overboard, and a steam pinnace would haul the consignment to land.

Then would follow lighter after lighter loaded with straw-packed cases, and these a solitary white man, sweating under a huge sun-helmet, would receive on behalf of Messrs. De Silva and Mackiney and carefully remove to the store of De Silva and Mackiney till the caravans which had been despatched by the same reputable firm had returned from the dark interior. Then would the carriers be paid their wages—in gin. Some there were who preferred rum, and for these the big hogsheads would be tapped; but in the main the favourite form of recompense was to be found in the lightly packed cases, where between straw lay the square-faced bottles of German spirit.

Emanuel Mackiney was worth, if rumour be true, something over a million and, like John Bright's visitor, that was all he was worth. He was immensely wealthy and immensely unscrupulous, so that while his cheques were honoured from French Dacca to Portuguese Benguela, he himself was not honoured anywhere.

Though his English was not perfect, though his origin was obvious, he invariably spoke of England as "home."

That is all it is necessary to tell about Emanuel Mackiney. His son is entitled to a distinct description.

Burney Mackiney had completed his education in England, having exploited it with less profit than his father had exploited the coast.

He was big and coarse and strong. He had lived long enough in England to elaborate the vices he had acquired on the coast—for he had grown up in the business, knew the language of a dozen peoples, and the habits of every nation from the borders of Dahomey to Angola. A tall man, with plump cheeks of bronze rosiness, full of lip and plump of chin, he had all the confidence in himself which unlimited possessions beget.

And Burney was in love.

He made the girl's acquaintance before the ship which was carrying him back to the handsome stucco mansion at Sierra Leone had reached Teneriffe.

A slim girl, with a wise, sad face, delicately moulded. This was Ruth Glandynne.

"Missionary, eh?" Burney's good-natured contempt, like Burney's wealth, was obvious. "Africa isn't the sort of place for a girl."

"I know worse," she said with a smile.

"And what part of the coast are you going to?" he asked.

"I am going to open a mission on the Isisi River."

"Alone?"

"It isn't very unusual, you know," she said. "There were two missionaries coming, but my companion fell sick—she will come out later."

"H'm!" said Burney. "Isisi River, eh?"

"Do you know it?"

She was interested. The grey eyes which had regarded him with suspicion and hostility were now alight with interest.

"Not exactly; we've never got in there, ye know. My governor does all the trade of the coast, but they've kept us out of the Isisi. There was a commissioner man there, perfect dog of a man, named Sanders. You'll hate him. He loathes missionaries and traders and all that."

This was the beginning of an acquaintance which led within two days to a proposal.

To Burney's intense amazement he was unhesitatingly rejected.

"It is most flattering that you should think that way," she said, meeting his eye without embarrassment; "but I have no wish to marry —anybody."

"One minute, Miss Glandynne," he said roughly; "don't make any mistake. You think my being rich and your being poor makes a difference. My father wouldn't mind—?"

"I never gave your financial position a moment's thought," she said, rising; "and you really cannot be any judge of mine."

"I love you," he muttered. "I've never met a girl as stunning as you. Look here," he laid his hand on her arm, "I could have had the pick of women at home, on my word I could. Titled ladies, some of them; but there's something about you—?"

They were alone on the promenade deck and it was dark and he had dined and was full of confidence.

"There's something about you"—he tightened his hold on her arm—"that gets into my blood—Ruth!"

In a second she was clasped in his strong arms, struggling.

"Let me go!" she cried.

For answer he bent and kissed her fiercely.

With a superhuman effort she treed herself and staggered back against the rail, pale and trembling.

"You blackguard!" she breathed.

The scorn in her steady grey eyes cowed him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm a fool—I've had a little to drink—?"

She walked swiftly along the deck and disappeared down the companion, and for three days he did not see her.

Another man would have been ashamed to meet her again, but Burney Mackiney was not of this kind. He had views on women, and had no other regret than that he had apologised. That was weak, he felt. The stronger, the more masterful you are with women, the better they like it. He waited his opportunity.

The night before the ship reached Sierra Leone he found her sitting on the forepart of the promenade deck, alone.

"Miss Glandynne!" he greeted; and she looked up with a cold stare. "Look here, what's the good of being bad friends. I've made up my mind to marry you."

She would have risen, but she feared a repetition of the scene in which she had been an unwilling actress. So she sat in silence and he misinterpreted her attitude.

"I can't get you out of my mind," he went on. "It's damnable to think of you on the Isisi River with nothing but cannibals and native brutes about you."

"Any variety of brute is preferable to you," she said; and the insult went home.

For a moment he stood incoherent with rage, then he loosed upon her a flood of invective.

She took advantage of his humiliation to make her escape. He did not see her again, though she saw him, for she watched the boat that carried him to land at Sierra Leone with heartfelt gratitude.