The Lair of the White Worm by Bram Stoker (pdf ebook reader TXT) 📗

moving round him in this great household there should be opportunities of self-advancement.  Being unscrupulous and stealthy—and a savage—he looked to dishonest means.  He saw plainly enough that Lady Arabella was making a dead set at his master, and he was watchful of the slightest sign of anything which might enhance this knowledge.  Like the other men in the house, he knew of the carrying to and fro of the great chest, and had got it into his head that the care exercised in its porterage indicated that it was full of treasure.  He was for ever lurking around the turret-rooms on the chance of making some useful discovery.  But he was as cautious as he was stealthy, and took care that no one else watched him.

It was thus that the negro became aware of Lady Arabella’s venture into the house, as she thought, unseen.  He took more care than ever, since he was watching another, that the positions were not reversed.  More than ever he kept his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut.  Seeing Lady Arabella gliding up the stairs towards his master’s room, he took it for granted that she was there for no good, and doubled his watching intentness and caution.

Oolanga was disappointed, but he dared not exhibit any feeling lest it should betray that he was hiding.  Therefore he slunk downstairs again noiselessly, and waited for a more favourable opportunity of furthering his plans.  It must be borne in mind that he thought that the heavy trunk was full of valuables, and that he believed that Lady Arabella had come to try to steal it.  His purpose of using for his own advantage the combination of these two ideas was seen later in the day.  Oolanga secretly followed her home.  He was an expert at this game, and succeeded admirably on this occasion.  He watched her enter the private gate of Diana’s Grove, and then, taking a roundabout course and keeping out of her sight, he at last overtook her in a thick part of the Grove where no one could see the meeting.

Lady Arabella was much surprised.  She had not seen the negro for several days, and had almost forgotten his existence.  Oolanga would have been startled had he known and been capable of understanding the real value placed on him, his beauty, his worthiness, by other persons, and compared it with the value in these matters in which he held himself.  Doubtless Oolanga had his dreams like other men.  In such cases he saw himself as a young sun-god, as beautiful as the eye of dusky or even white womanhood had ever dwelt upon.  He would have been filled with all noble and captivating qualities—or those regarded as such in West Africa.  Women would have loved him, and would have told him so in the overt and fervid manner usual in affairs of the heart in the shadowy depths of the forest of the Gold Coast.

Oolanga came close behind Lady Arabella, and in a hushed voice, suitable to the importance of his task, and in deference to the respect he had for her and the place, began to unfold the story of his love.  Lady Arabella was not usually a humorous person, but no man or woman of the white race could have checked the laughter which rose spontaneously to her lips.  The circumstances were too grotesque, the contrast too violent, for subdued mirth.  The man a debased specimen of one of the most primitive races of the earth, and of an ugliness which was simply devilish; the woman of high degree, beautiful, accomplished.  She thought that her first moment’s consideration of the outrage—it was nothing less in her eyes—had given her the full material for thought.  But every instant after threw new and varied lights on the affront.  Her indignation was too great for passion; only irony or satire would meet the situation.  Her cold, cruel nature helped, and she did not shrink to subject this ignorant savage to the merciless fire-lash of her scorn.

Oolanga was dimly conscious that he was being flouted; but his anger was no less keen because of the measure of his ignorance.  So he gave way to it, as does a tortured beast.  He ground his great teeth together, raved, stamped, and swore in barbarous tongues and with barbarous imagery.  Even Lady Arabella felt that it was well she was within reach of help, or he might have offered her brutal violence—even have killed her.

“Am I to understand,” she said with cold disdain, so much more effective to wound than hot passion, “that you are offering me your love?  Your—love?”

For reply he nodded his head.  The scorn of her voice, in a sort of baleful hiss, sounded—and felt—like the lash of a whip.

“And you dared! you—a savage—a slave—the basest thing in the world of vermin!  Take care!  I don’t value your worthless life more than I do that of a rat or a spider.  Don’t let me ever see your hideous face here again, or I shall rid the earth of you.”

As she was speaking, she had taken out her revolver and was pointing it at him.  In the immediate presence of death his impudence forsook him, and he made a weak effort to justify himself.  His speech was short, consisting of single words.  To Lady Arabella it sounded mere gibberish, but it was in his own dialect, and meant love, marriage, wife.  From the intonation of the words, she guessed, with her woman’s quick intuition, at their meaning; but she quite failed to follow, when, becoming more pressing, he continued to urge his suit in a mixture of the grossest animal passion and ridiculous threats.  He warned her that he knew she had tried to steal his master’s treasure, and that he had caught her in the act.  But if she would be his, he would share the treasure with her, and they could live in luxury in the African forests.  But if she refused, he would tell his master, who would flog and torture her and then give her to the police, who would kill her.

CHAPTER XIV—BATTLE RENEWED

The consequences of that meeting in the dusk of Diana’s Grove were acute and far-reaching, and not only to the two engaged in it.  From Oolanga, this might have been expected by anyone who knew the character of the tropical African savage.  To such, there are two passions that are inexhaustible and insatiable—vanity and that which they are pleased to call love.  Oolanga left the Grove with an absorbing hatred in his heart.  His lust and greed were afire, while his vanity had been wounded to the core.  Lady Arabella’s icy nature was not so deeply stirred, though she was in a seething passion.  More than ever she was set upon bringing Edgar Caswall to her feet.  The obstacles she had encountered, the insults she had endured, were only as fuel to the purpose of revenge which consumed her.

As she sought her own rooms in Diana’s Grove, she went over the whole subject again and again, always finding in the face of Lilla Watford a key to a problem which puzzled her—the problem of a way to turn Caswall’s powers—his very existence—to aid her purpose.

When in her boudoir, she wrote a note, taking so much trouble over it that she destroyed, and rewrote, till her dainty waste-basket was half-full of torn sheets of notepaper.  When quite satisfied, she copied out the last sheet afresh, and then carefully burned all the spoiled fragments.  She put the copied note in an emblazoned envelope, and directed it to Edgar Caswall at Castra Regis.  This she sent off by one of her grooms.  The letter ran:

“DEAR MR. CASWALL,

“I want to have a chat with you on a subject in which I believe you are interested.  Will you kindly call for me one day after lunch—say at three or four o’clock, and we can walk a little way together.  Only as far as Mercy Farm, where I want to see Lilla and Mimi Watford.  We can take a cup of tea at the Farm.  Do not bring your African servant with you, as I am afraid his face frightens the girls.  After all, he is not pretty, is he?  I have an idea you will be pleased with your visit this time.

“Yours sincerely,

“ARABELLA MARCH.”

At half-past three next day, Edgar Caswall called at Diana’s Grove.  Lady Arabella met him on the roadway outside the gate.  She wished to take the servants into her confidence as little as possible.  She turned when she saw him coming, and walked beside him towards Mercy Farm, keeping step with him as they walked.  When they got near Mercy, she turned and looked around her, expecting to see Oolanga or some sign of him.  He was, however, not visible.  He had received from his master peremptory orders to keep out of sight—an order for which the African scored a new offence up against her.  They found Lilla and Mimi at home and seemingly glad to see them, though both the girls were surprised at the visit coming so soon after the other.

The proceedings were a repetition of the battle of souls of the former visit.  On this occasion, however, Edgar Caswall had only the presence of Lady Arabella to support him—Oolanga being absent; but Mimi lacked the support of Adam Salton, which had been of such effective service before.  This time the struggle for supremacy of will was longer and more determined.  Caswall felt that if he could not achieve supremacy he had better give up the idea, so all his pride was enlisted against Mimi.  When they had been waiting for the door to be opened, Lady Arabella, believing in a sudden attack, had said to him in a low voice, which somehow carried conviction:

“This time you should win.  Mimi is, after all, only a woman.  Show her no mercy.  That is weakness.  Fight her, beat her, trample on her—kill her if need be.  She stands in your way, and I hate her.  Never take your eyes off her.  Never mind Lilla—she is afraid of you.  You are already her master.  Mimi will try to make you look at her cousin.  There lies defeat.  Let nothing take your attention from Mimi, and you will win.  If she is overcoming you, take my hand and hold it hard whilst you are looking into her eyes.  If she is too strong for you, I shall interfere.  I’ll make a diversion, and under cover of it you must retire unbeaten, even if not victorious.  Hush! they are coming.”

The two girls came to the door together.  Strange sounds were coming up over the Brow from the west.  It was the rustling and crackling of the dry reeds and rushes from the low lands.  The season had been an unusually dry one.  Also the strong east wind was helping forward enormous flocks of birds, most of them pigeons with white cowls.  Not only were their wings whirring, but their cooing was plainly audible.  From such a multitude of birds the mass of sound, individually small, assumed the volume of a storm.  Surprised at the influx of birds, to which they had been strangers so long, they all looked towards Castra Regis, from whose high tower the great kite had been flying as usual.  But even as they looked, the cord broke, and the great kite fell headlong in a series of sweeping dives.  Its own weight, and the aerial force opposed to it, which caused it to rise, combined with the strong easterly breeze, had been too much for the great length of cord holding it.

Somehow, the mishap to the kite gave new hope to Mimi.  It was as though the side issues had been shorn away, so that the main struggle was thenceforth on simpler lines.  She had a feeling in her heart, as though some religious chord had been newly touched.  It may, of course, have been that with the renewal of the bird voices a fresh courage, a fresh belief in the good issue of the struggle came too.  In the misery of silence, from which they had all suffered for so long, any new train of thought was almost bound to be a boon.  As the inrush of birds continued, their wings beating against the crackling rushes, Lady Arabella grew pale, and almost fainted.

“What is that?” she asked suddenly.

To Mimi, born and bred in Siam, the sound was strangely like an exaggeration of the sound produced by a snake-charmer.

Edgar Caswall was the first to recover from the interruption of the falling kite.  After a few minutes he seemed to have quite recovered his sang froid, and was able to use his brains to the end which he had in view.  Mimi too quickly recovered herself, but from a different cause.  With her it was a deep religious conviction that the struggle round her was of the powers of Good and Evil, and that Good was triumphing.  The very