Читать книгу A Broken Memory - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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No letter from Wilfred, again, she thought. Still, the newspaper meant something. Gladys could see at a glance that it was a copy of the South African Banner, which came to her regularly every week as evidence that her brother was alive and well. Wilfred had taken out a subscription so that the journal in question arrived punctually every Monday morning. It was disappointing that another mail should have arrived without anything more tangible than that paper in question, and Gladys walked into the cottage a little depressed and, to tell the truth, just a little annoyed as well. She cheered herself with the thought that next Monday would probably bring the desired letter, so that she turned into that pleasant, beautifully furnished sitting room of hers where breakfast awaited her. An old woman with a cheery, apple face, and a pleasant smile hovered over the table with an air of expectation which Gladys did not fail to note.

"No Marta," she said. "No letter again this morning. But the paper has arrived, as you see."

"Yes, I see that, miss," the elderly retainer said with a sniff. "But there, Master Wilfred always was that careless. Not that he means to forget you. I'm sure."

Gladys finished breakfast leisurely and then, for the next hour or so, was busy in that little attic studio with her work. She came down just before lunch time and sat in the sunny porch of the cottage with the South African paper in her hand. She had nothing to do for the next half hour or so, and there was more than one item of interest in the news sheet which she spread out over her knee. She came presently to a story which was not badly told and evidently the work of some newspaper man who possessed a considerable literary faculty and the gift of telling a narrative in an attractive fashion.

It related to the adventures of three or four Englishmen who had gone up from Cape Town, right through to the wilds of Upper Rhodesia in search of treasure. There had been rumours to effect that precious stones had been found there, rubies as well as diamonds, but that the locality was in the hands of a certain none too friendly tribe that had spelt disaster to more than one pioneer in the past.

But these fresh adventurers seemed to have been more successful than their predecessors. They had not only contrived to make their way as far as Tom Tiddler's ground, where the treasure lay, but had managed to send letters down country describing their success. So far, there had been no sensational find of rare gems, but here and there, they had picked up a few stones which convinced them that they were on the eve of a discovery that was likely to prove of great advantage. Beyond doubt, the treasure lay there, and it was only a question of how soon the ground could be properly laid out and used to the great commercial benefit of the community.

All this was in the first part of the story. It was told in letter form without mentioning any names and merely retailed as an item of interest. Then a bit lower down in the column the drama began to develop itself. The three white men who formed the party, together with their native followers, had found themselves suddenly in great peril. They had contrived, some way or another, mortally to offend some native chief on whose land they had trespassed and, in the end, they had found themselves taken prisoners. One of the three Englishmen had met his death in an attempted escape and between the lines of the story, Gladys could see that the victim in question had been more or less callously abandoned by his two companions who were only too anxious to get away with whole skins. They had managed to fight their way down country with the aid of their rifles and camp followers and at length reached the outposts of civilisation where the story was told to a trader who had passed it on to the journalist who was responsible for the narrative.

And then and there, the tale more or less abruptly ended. There was the suggestion that more would follow next week, and with this Gladys had to be content.

It was nothing to her, she told herself, and, yet all the same, the story moved her strangely. Why had those two men stolen away under the cover of the night and abandoned their comrade to his fate? So far as Gladys could gather, each of the Englishmen had been a bound prisoner in separate huts. One of them had managed to escape his bonds and free his nearest neighbour before the alarm was given. Then they had contrived to secure a rifle each, and a plentiful stock of ammunition and collect a handful of their black followers. But they had not troubled about the third man, who was lying, bound, in a hut not half a mile away from the scene of the fight. Surely two Englishmen, fully armed, could have held their own against a whole tribe of savages whose only weapons were spears, and have made an attempt, at least, to rescue their unfortunate comrade whom they had so cruelly abandoned to torture by a savage tribe. It did not sound like British pluck and courage at all.

Gladys was about to throw the paper down in silent contempt when her eye caught a faint, badly printed paragraph opposite the leader page. It was the familiar item in what is called the stop press edition, and contained altogether but a few lines which ran as follows:—

"With regard to our adventure story on page five, some further information has come to hand. It appears that the three Englishmen concerned in the 'Through Upper Rhodesia in Search of Treasure' are named respectively Patrick French, Walter Bland, and Wilfred Brooke. It is the latter, who, unfortunately met his death at the hands of savages after he was apparently abandoned by his companions who were apparently, unable to effect his rescue. Mr. French is a wealthy young traveller and explorer, who came to South Africa some few years ago in search of adventure. Mr. Bland is also an Englishman, who, we understand, was connected with the theatrical profession, and who has been with many touring companies through the colonies for some considerable time. The unfortunate man who lost his life was until lately, a clerk in the Universal Bank, Natal. He was a comparatively newcomer."

The paper fluttered lifelessly from Gladys' hand. It was as if someone had struck her a blow in the face. So, then Wilfred was dead. He had perished miserably in a foreign land in circumstances that Gladys shuddered to contemplate. Perhaps it was all for the best, but Gladys was not in the mental condition to take this philosophical view of the case yet.

She sat there, trying to piece this extraordinary puzzle together. To begin with, what was Wilfred doing in that expedition? Why had he suddenly abandoned his post in Cape Town and gone off wandering into the wilderness so abruptly without writing a single line to his sister about it? It had been little less than a miracle that had put Wilfred on his feet again and turned his head in the right direction. And then, just as he had the chance of making good and wiping out the disgraceful past, he had wilfully flung to the winds the gifts the gods had sent him and become a mere wanderer on the face of the earth. Why had he done it—why? Gladys asked herself the question over and over again without arriving at any sensible conclusion.

And then there came another dreadful thought. Had Wilfred fallen away from grace again and lost his situation? Every circumstance pointed to that conclusion. Doubtless he had fallen into evil hands again and been led away by bad companions. Who was this man, Bland, for instance. Gladys had never heard of him before. An actor of no repute, evidently probably an adventurer touring Africa with a fifth-rate company, and ready for anything that came along.

But French—Patrick French was a different proposition altogether. Gladys knew all about him. In the early days when his correspondence was regular, Wilfred had spoken of French over and over again. He was a splendid chap—a top-hole fellow. One of the very best, generous and handsome, and a man of family besides. Any amount of money, and only wandering about to amuse himself. Never had there been such a man as Patrick French, according to Wilfred's account. Very impulsive, too, and candid to a fault. Why, had he not fallen in love with Gladys' photograph the first time he had seen it, and sworn by all his gods that hers was the face of the ideal wife of his dreams!

It all came back to Gladys with overwhelming force as she sat there with her face in her hands. Poor Wilfred, as usual the worst judge of a man in the world, had placed himself in the hands of this cowardly scoundrel who had deliberately left him to a cruel and quite unnecessary fate.

But it was idle to sit there brooding when there were things to be done. Gladys rose to her feet, and, putting on her hat, walked across the fields to the neighbouring town of Marwich, rather than send off a cablegram from the village post-office. She was not known at Marwich, and from there she could cable to Wilfred's late bank manager at Cape Town and prepay the reply, it was only a question of hours before the response came, and, in the meantime, she could only sit down and wait. She had to tell Marta, of course, but no more than it was necessary for that excellent gossip to know. Mr. Wilfred was dead, he had died on a hunting expedition, and Gladys had read all about it in the papers that she had received that morning. And Marta accepted the explanation without asking to see the account in print—which was, perhaps, just as well.

It was quite late in the evening before the telegraph boy came with the eagerly-expected message. It ran:—

"W.B. discharged over four months ago. Know nothing whatever of his whereabouts since."