The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “In this matter of wives, Fembeni,” he said gently; “how shall you deal with the women of your house?”

      Fembeni wriggled his bare shoulders uncomfortably.

      “Lord, I shall put them all away, save one,” he said sulkily, “for that is the blessed way.”

      “H’m!” said Sanders for the second time that morning.

      He was silent for a long time, then:

      “It is rather a problem,” he said.

      “It presents no difficulty to my mind,” said the girl stiffly.

      She was growing very angry, though Sanders did not realise the fact, being unused to the ways of white women.

      “I think it is rather horrid of you, Mr. Sanders, to discourage this man, to put obstacles in his faith — ?”

      “I put no obstacle,” interrupted the Commissioner. He was short of speech, being rather so intent upon his subject that he took no account of the fine feelings of a zealous lady missionary. “But I cannot allow this to happen in my district; this man has four wives, each of them has borne him children. What justice or what Christianity is there in turning loose three women who have served this man?”

      Here was a problem for the girl, and in her desperation she used an argument which was unanswerable.

      “The law allows this,” she said. “These things happen all over the world where missionary work is in progress. Perhaps I could bring the women to understand; perhaps I could explain — ?”

      “You couldn’t explain the babies out of existence,” said Sanders brutally.

      That ended the discussion, for with a look of scorn and disgust she passed into the hut, leaving Sanders a prey to some emotion.

      He turned a cold eye to the offending Fembeni.

      “It seems,” he said, “that a man by becoming a Christian has less mouths to fill. Now I must investigate this matter.”

      Fembeni regarded him apprehensively, for if a woman is questioned, who knows what she will say? And it was fairly unimportant to the man if he had one wife or forty.

      There was no possibility of searching any farther that night for the erring Oko, and Sanders was rowed across the river in his canoe to interview the wives of the new convert.

      He found one woman who viewed the coming change with considerable philosophy, and three who were very shrill and very voluble.

      “Lord,” said one of these three in that insolent tone which only native women assume, “this white witch has taken our man — ?”

      “I do not hear well,” said Sanders quickly, “yet I thought I heard a word I do not like.”

      He whiffled a pliant stick till it hummed a tune.

      “Lord,” said the woman, dropping her voice and speaking more mildly, “this God-lady has taken our man.”

      “God-ladies do not take men,” said Sanders; “rather they influence their spirits that they may be better men.”

      “Fembeni will be no better and no worse,” said the woman bitterly, “for he goes to the forest by night; often he has risen from my side, and when he has gone, behold the Nine Terrible Men have come from near by and taken that which they wanted.”

      She stopped abruptly. There was horror in the eyes which met the Commissioner’s; in her anger she had said too much.

      “That is foolish talk,” said Sanders easily.

      He knew there would be no more information here and he played to quieten her fears.

      He strolled through the village, talked awhile with the headman, and returned to his canoe.

      Once on the Zaire he summoned Abiboo.

      “Take three men and bring Fembeni to me,” he said, “and be very ready to shoot him, for I have heard certain things.”

      He waited for ten minutes, then Abiboo returned — alone.

      “Fembeni has gone into the forest,” he said; “also the God-lady.”

      Sanders looked at him.

      “How?”

      “Lord, this Fembeni is a Christian, and desired to speak with the God-woman of the new magic. So they walked together, the God-woman reading from a book. Also he had a gift for her, which he bought from a Frenchi trader.”

      “I see,” said Sanders.

      He poured himself out a Stiff glass of whiskey, and his hand shook a little.

      Then he lifted down a sporting rifle that hung on the wall of his cabin, broke open two packets of cartridges, and dropped them into his coat pocket.

      “Let the men come on quickly,” he said, “you commanding.”

      “Lord, there are other Sergeants,” said Abiboo. “I will go with you, for I am at your right hand, though death waits me.”

      “As you will,” said Sanders roughly.

      He went through the missionary compound, stopping only that a boy should point out the direction the two had taken, then he moved swiftly towards the forest, Abiboo at his heels.

      He followed the beaten track for a hundred yards. Then he stopped and sniffed like a dog.

      He went on a little farther and came back on his tracks.

      He stooped and picked up some pieces of broken glass and turned aside from the path, following his nose.

      *

      Ruth Glandynne had supreme faith in the power of the Word which makes martyrs.

      “You must have no doubt, Fembeni,” she said in her halting Isisi, “for with Light, such things as the Word brings, all things will be made plain to: you.”

      They were beyond the confines of the little mission station, walking slowly towards the forest.

      She read little extracts from the book she carried, and so full of her subject was she that she did not observe that they had passed the straggling trees, the outposts of the big forest.

      When she did notice this she turned.

      “More I will tell you, Fembeni,” she said.

      “Lady, tell me now,” he begged, “for Sandi has made me doubt.”

      She frowned. What mischief can a materialist work! She had liked Sanders. Now for one resentful moment she almost hated him.

      “There are white men who doubt,” she said, “and СКАЧАТЬ