milk of the cows turn sour. He was a man-witch who poisoned the swamps, and talked with the spiders at evil hours of the night. He was also a number of other undesirable things, according to the superstitious Kali, who continued to divulge more or less valuable information over my cigarettes.
Then came the day when I met the girl face to face. And that day I learned more than ever before though what I heard scarcely satisfied me.
The girl was timid, and though she permitted me to walk with her a short distance, I left her more disturbed than before. Yes, she said, she was English, though born in Africa. She had never seen England, having been no farther than Port Said, and then only once, when mere baby. Her mother? She did not remember her mother, and she had never heard the English tongue except by her father. This was practically all she told me, but it made me long to hear more.
On that short walk with her I learned several important details, not the least important of which was the fact that she was even prettier than I had at first supposed. And she had been well educated—the professor evidently was an excellent teacher—and she had mentioned books, many books. The next morning I was waiting in the market place.
She came. It was more than I had hoped. Why bore you with details, gentlemen? I grew to know her better than myself. Yes, I was in love, and beyond that there's no explanation needed, I'm sure.
We talked of many things during that first short week of our acquaintance, and on one subject only was she elusive: her father. Of her father only, she would not speak. When I spoke of him she would turn away with a look on her face much akin to fear. But perhaps I was mistaken. As we grew more intimate it grew upon me that her father, even if he was the dreadful being Kali had made him out to be, was at least a wonderful scholar. I could read it in this child. She was wonderful. In most respects she astounded me with her learning, and then at other times she would show an ignorance that was pathetic. The man she called her father had molded her mind to suit his will, but there is something about a woman's mind, gentlemen, that no earthly cunning can twist from its course. I began to read it in her eyes that she cared for me more than her innocence knew. I haven't told you her name. It was Irene Denham.
"I would like very much to meet your father," I ventured, on evening. "Doesn't he know that you are meeting me here?"
She hesitated.
"I have told him of you, Scott," she admitted. "And—well, he doesn't exactly approve. Of course it's because he doesn't know you," she added hastily, "but when I suggested that you visit us at our home on the veldt, he was very angry. Father is like that—sometimes I think he hates all white men. I think it's because he's so wrapped up in his work, the work he has been carrying on for twenty years. But tomorrow, Scott, if you will come—"
I shook my head.
"Not if he disapproves of it," I began, and then I had a sudden thought. I would go, and moreover, I would come to an understanding with this man. Surely I had the right, at least, for I was determined to take Irene back to England with me. There was no other course open—I would see Professor Denham, and see him the very next day. I told the girl of my plans—and, well, gentlemen, I won't go into details—but she accepted them.. I would meet her in the dirty little market place the next morning, we agreed, and would accompany her home.
