Читать книгу Woodsmoke - Francis Brett Young - Страница 9

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As he walked up the hill he was thinking of the Rawleys’ safari. A queer show it would be for certain. Rawley, his wife, and some unfortunate devil whom they’d get hold of to shoot for the pot, manage the porters and generally make things comfortable. Whoever it might be would have his work cut out. Probably there’d be trouble with Mrs. Rawley. One woman in a party was always a devil of a nuisance. Women had no business to go careering over Africa like that. As for all this rot about virgin country, and not being considered and the rest of it: that was just ignorance of the realities of the case. Exploration sounds all right when you come to write about it afterwards: there is nothing that a man’s mind forgets so soon as physical discomfort: but when you’re hacking you’re way inch by inch through forest or thornbush and wondering whether you’re going to strike water or die of thirst, exploration is no joke.

Still, Mrs. Rawley was a spirited woman. He liked the way in which she had sat up in that ricksha with the crowd buzzing round her; and not the flicker of an eyelid. And he liked the way in which she handled Rawley’s blundering offer. A less tactful woman might have pressed him to come with them; and that would have put him under the awkward necessity of letting her know that her personal attractions weren’t sufficient to draw him. When he came to think of it Rawley hadn’t pressed him either. Well, he wished her luck.

It was easy to do that. But supposing she didn’t get it; supposing, for instance, that they found their man and were landed with a rotter, a fellow without qualifications who jumped at the job for the sake of Rawley’s money? In that case the whole safari might meet with disaster. Supposing the man fell out with Rawley; nothing was more likely considering Rawley’s temper. Supposing the whole bunch of them went down with fever? Supposing Rawley died, and she were left alone with the outsider; supposing the other fellow died and she were left alone with Rawley? He saw her alone, pitiful, tight-lipped, as he had seen her in the ricksha, and all Africa closing in on her—closing in and closing over. He began to reproach himself for the way in which he had choked them off. Obviously, even if he didn’t see them again, it was his duty to try to find them somebody reliable. Whatever Rawley might be, his wife was a lady, a woman of his own caste. He hadn’t played the game with her. And he couldn’t think why.

These sentimental twinges annoyed him. After all he wasn’t under any particular obligation to these people; if anything the boot was on the other leg. And Rawley’s proposal was monstrous: that he, for utter strangers, should give up his hardly-earned leave. And then, the “arrangement!” What did they take him for? He wondered for a moment if this offer had been a put-up job; if Kilgour, the wily old rascal, were at the bottom of it. If that were so he’d tell Pat Kilgour what he thought of him. But it couldn’t be so. His second meeting with the Rawleys had been the result of chance; to be exact, the result of Rawley’s abominable behaviour with the ricksha boy—and Kilgour, to this moment, believed that he was sailing for Europe within thirty-six hours. No doubt in such a caravanserai as the Kilgours’ house his bed was already booked. Nobody, in fact, but Mrs. Rawley knew that he had changed his mind. What was more, he hadn’t. It was just about time to make a stand against this nonsense; to assert his real self, which had never for a moment doubted that he was sailing for England on the Vandal, against these ridiculous fancies. “This day, three weeks,” he told himself firmly, “I will dine with Harry at the Rag. So that’s all about it. No more nonsense, now!”

And there, as though it owed its creation to the potency of his thought, stood the shipping office, just on the other side of the street. No time like the present, he thought, I’ll go in and pay for my ticket. He crossed the road, and this action, of itself, gave him a feeling of recovered virtue. An Indian clerk received him, bowing behind the counter.

“I’ve come about my passage on the Vandal,” he said. “I think you’ve got my name. Antrim ... Captain Antrim.”

“Captain Antrim? Yes, sir. We’ve given you berth a hundred and six; port side. I think that was what you asked for?”

“Thanks. Yes. That’ll do quite well.” He put his hand into the breast-pocket in which he kept his cheque-book. It wasn’t there. No doubt he had left it in the other coat. He swore.

“The Vandal is to sail at daybreak,” said the clerk, tactfully ignoring the language. “It will be best to go on board to-night.”

“To-night?” So he was in luck. “Yes. Very well.” Perhaps he had put it in the pocket on the opposite side. The other pocket was empty. The clerk guessed what was the matter.

“That doesn’t matter, sir,” he said. “It’s quite all right. You can send along the cheque this evening, or pay when you get on board. The agent will be in the purser’s office up to the last moment. Or if you like you can pay the purser himself.”

“Can I? That’s not a bad idea. I think I’ll do that. It will save trouble.”

He went out into the street, annoyed that he had not done what he intended. By this time night had fallen. He hailed a ricksha and passed swiftly and silently through the tepid darkness to the Kilgours’ house.

Mrs. Kilgour had arranged a dinner-party in his honour. Wells, the District Commissioner; Tredinnick, the High Court Judge, and their wives. It was a very different affair from the Rawleys’ lunch, for all were well acquainted, being members of the same official family. Everybody envied Antrim his trip home, and told him so; but they did it as nicely as if they were extracting a vicarious pleasure out of his good fortune. It was such a jolly, good-humoured party that Antrim forgot all about his troubles, the Rawleys included, and settled down to enjoy himself in the sort of company that he understood.

Mrs. Kilgour was at the top of her form and egged the other women on to ask him questions about their official sisters in Nairobi. It was a good game to keep them anxiously waiting on the details of the latest scandal. He found himself examined and cross-examined: Tredinnick judicially deciding the propriety of the questions that were put to him. Antrim gave them a good run for their money. By the end of it his admissions led them to the worst—in other words what they had suspected from the first—and every one was pleased. He laughed with the rest of them; but he didn’t really like it. It was just the Nairobi Club all over again. He wouldn’t be sorry to be out of it. And that reminded him; he hadn’t yet told Mrs. Kilgour that the Vandal’s sailing hour had been altered. He must remember to do so after dinner.

The women left them. Kilgour produced some excellent port. They began to talk of more serious things; of the blunders of the Colonial Office, the incompetence of the Governor, the bitter feuds of local politics; and from this the Judge passed easily to legal anecdotes which Kilgour, who was himself a lawyer, capped with the extravagances of the Irish Bar. They laughed a great deal, being all in a mood for amusement. Antrim was enjoying himself. He liked the comfort of the red-shaded lights, the lustre of the dark mahogany table, the rubies of Kilgour’s best port, the white-robed native flitting through the shadows. The whole setting put him in mind of his early sentimental years. He caught back at the mood of a subaltern landing for the first time in India. Out in the enclosed verandah the D.C.’s wife was singing a song that his sister Honor used to sing. Antrim wasn’t musical. The only tunes of which he could be certain were “God Save the King” and “The Wearing of the Green;” but he liked to think that he was. He found himself beating time with his foot to the rhythm of the song. For the third time the port went round.

“By the way,” said the Judge, “have any of you come across a fellow named Rawley?”

Antrim smiled to himself. Now that he was safe he could afford to smile. Again he reminded himself to tell Mrs. Kilgour of the altered sailing. It was Kilgour who answered the question.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve met Rawley. He and his wife were lunching here this morning.” He could see from the Judge’s smile that there was more to come. “Out with it, Judge! Out with it!”

“No ...” said Tredinnick, sipping his port, “I only wondered. I saw him down at the club. I’d no idea he was in this country.”

“Came in on the Vandal yesterday,” said Kilgour.

“He’s Rawley’s Chemical Dip, you know. Only son. Pots of money.”

“Yes, so I believe.”

“And his wife was old St. Pinnock’s daughter. They come from my part of the country. Rawley’s father bought the St. Pinnocks’ estate. The heir was killed up in the Chitral or somewhere. The title’s extinct. Very bad luck. Nice simple people, the St. Pinnocks.”

“And what about Rawley?” asked Kilgour.

“Rawley? Oh, I don’t know. He’s a queer chap. The old man did him well. Sent him to Eton; but somehow it didn’t fit. Then he was in the Grenadiers for a time. I don’t know how that ended. The next I heard of him was being married to Janet Carlyon.”

“How did that happen?” Kilgour asked.

“I suppose he took her over with the estate. There must be something decent about him, otherwise that wouldn’t have come off. The Carlyons are extraordinarily nice people. She was the only daughter. Still, I can never imagine how she did it.”

“Well, I must say it struck me as rather queer,” said Kilgour. “She’s a charming woman. I couldn’t make head or tail of Rawley. What’s the matter with him?”

“Well, really, it’s hard to say. Heredity, perhaps. Old Rawley married his housekeeper. Altogether the old man was a pretty tough customer; clever as they make ’em, and a first class man of business, but hard as nails. The mother was a pretty woman; regular East Cornish type. I only saw her once; but I gather she had rather a thin time. So did the son. The old man was a bully. One day he’d give the boy a couple of thousand to play with and encourage him to blue it. Then he’d cut him down to nothing. He liked the idea of power. Terrific temper, too. I gather young Rawley inherited that from him. There was a police-court case. One of the keepers sued him for assault. It made a tremendous scandal at the time. I gather the father had to pay pretty heavily for it. Well, he could afford little luxuries of that kind.”

“Then why the deuce did the girl marry him?” Kilgour asked.

“The housekeeper? Because she had to, I suppose. The usual reason.”

“No, no. St. Pinnock’s daughter. I’m talking about the son.”

“Oh, the son? Really I don’t know. Sentiment, perhaps. All the Carlyons were awfully keen on Withiel. I don’t blame them. It’s a charming place. They were desperately poor, too. And young Rawley was just about the only educated man in the district. Besides, one always felt that the boy was more sinned against than sinning. Possibly she was sorry for him. You know what women are. And besides all that it’s quite likely that he has a decent side. Upon my soul, if I’d had a father like that, I should have made a fool of myself out of sheer desperation. He may be quite an attractive fellow when you get to know him.”

“It doesn’t exactly leap to the eye,” Kilgour suggested.

“No, it doesn’t. You’re quite right. And then, of course, he drinks.”

“Drinks? The devil he does?”

“He was fairly obviously tight when I saw him down at the club to-night.”

“Was his wife there?”

“Yes. That’s why I didn’t speak to them. I thought it would embarrass the poor soul. I expect she knows how to manage him by now.”

Antrim was seized with a sudden uneasiness. He remembered the eager way in which Rawley had mopped up his second whisky. The fellow must have lost no time if the judge had seen him the worse for liquor between that time and dinner. Antrim felt that he himself was partly responsible. He shouldn’t have left the Rawleys so precipitately. Indeed, he would never have done so if he hadn’t felt that it was necessary to escape, though from what he was escaping he couldn’t say. His own ignorance of Rawley’s unfortunate tendency didn’t mend matters. Why, in Heaven’s name, hadn’t the woman dropped him a hint? Too proud, he supposed. But then, she might have known that he would understand. Now he saw her piloting her husband back to their hotel through the dark. It was damnable. He felt an impulse to get up, to leave his host talking, and make a dash for it. Perhaps it was already too late for him to be of any use; and yet the fact that he had made an attempt might ease his conscience.

The impulse was difficult to resist. And then he realised that it was not the business of a stranger to throw himself into the lives of these queer people; he felt, once more, a shade of resentment that he had already experienced against this couple who were diverting him from the ordered course of his life. They must fight their own battles, like every one else. For the woman a lonely, losing battle..... It wasn’t pleasant to think of. He had already allowed himself to picture her as stranded in the middle of Africa; but, at this moment, she was stranded just as surely in a comfortless Mombasa hotel. Tredinnick expected she knew how to manage him. Well, perhaps she did. Even if he obeyed his impulse and went he would probably end by making a fool of himself.

“More port?” said Kilgour. “No? Well, then, I think we’d better join them.”

On the verandah the women were waiting. As they entered Mrs. Kilgour beckoned to Antrim. “I’ve news for you, young man,” she said, “they’ve just sent up a message from Kilindini to say that the boat will sail at daybreak. We’d better arrange to get your heavy baggage aboard. Just tell me what you want to keep by you and I’ll see that they leave it behind. Rather short notice!”

“Yes,” said Antrim penitently. “I’m afraid I’ve let you in for a lot of unnecessary trouble. They told me about the change at the office this afternoon. I meant to let you know, but somehow it slipped me.”

“What’s this, what’s this?” Kilgour sang out cheerfully from the other side of the verandah.

“Jimmy has to be aboard to-night. The Vandal’s off at daybreak.”

“What an awful shame!” said the D.C.’s wife. “I was going to book him for tennis to-morrow. I want him to meet some people named Rawley who have a letter for John.”

“What about this baggage, Jimmy?” Kilgour called. “You’d better settle it now, and get it off your mind.”

“I’ve done that already,” said Antrim. “Don’t bother about it. I’ve decided not to sail on the Vandal.”

“Not to sail on the Vandal?” cried Mrs. Kilgour. “My dear Jimmy, what do you mean? You’ve booked your passage.”

“I know,” said Antrim, smiling at her and at himself, “and jolly nearly paid for it, too. That’s why I went to the office this evening. Fortunately I left my cheques behind.”

“My dear fellow,” said Kilgour, “you must be ill.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Antrim. “Never fitter. Can’t I change my mind?”

“You don’t usually,” Kilgour reminded him. “Still, there it is! Only I think you might tell us the lady’s name!”

“Nothing doing, bwanam kubwa,” Antrim laughed. “You’re on the wrong horse.”

“And to think of the emotions we’ve wasted on him!” said Mrs. Kilgour. “After all these good-byes, I don’t see how any decent man could stay.”

“At any rate you’ll be able to play tennis to-morrow,” said the D.C.’s wife. “We’ll expect you.”

“Delighted,” said Antrim.

At the end of a pleasant and futile evening he found himself alone with the Kilgours. This was the moment that they had been awaiting with some curiosity.

“Well, Jimmy, what’s it all about?” Kilgour asked him.

“I don’t know. All the way down from Nairobi I felt in my bones that I didn’t want to go.”

“Rubbish!” said Kilgour. “I’ve heard of that sort of thing before. There ought to be a regulation compelling officers to take their leave out of the country. It’s morbid. Result of altitude. Pull yourself together and I’ll drive you down to the ship.”

“No, Pat ... I’ve made up my mind. No use talking about it.”

“Obstinate old devil! What the deuce do you think you’re going to do?”

“A long safari. See something of the country.”

“Good God, man! When you might be in Ireland! Where do you think of going?”

“I don’t know. Nothing is fixed. I’m going with the Rawleys.”

“The Rawleys ...? My dear Jimmy, are you mad?”

“When I want a medical board I’ll ask for it.”

“You heard what the judge said about him?”

“What did the judge say?” asked Mrs. Kilgour eagerly.

“Drinks like a fish. A very queer customer. Jimmy, this is all damned nonsense.”

“Well, it may be. But I’m going.”

“Then God help you for a bigger ass than I ever believed you!”

“Jimmy,” said Mrs. Kilgour seriously, “there’s more in this than meets the eye.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Antrim.