XII.
Mr. Van Wyk, the white man of Batu Beru, an ex-naval officer who,
for reasons best known to himself, had thrown away the promise of a
brilliant career to become the pioneer of tobacco-planting on that
remote part of the coast, had learned to like Captain Whalley. The
appearance of the new skipper had attracted his attention. Nothing more
unlike all the diverse types he had seen succeeding each other on the
bridge of the Sofala could be imagined.
At that time Batu Beru was not what it has become since: the center of a prosperous tobacco-growing district, a tropically suburban-looking little settlement of bungalows in one long street shaded with two rows of trees, embowered by the flowering and trim luxuriance of the gardens, with a three-mile-long carriage-road for the afternoon drives and a first-class Resident with a fat, cheery wife to lead the society of married estate-managers and unmarried young fellows in the service of the big companies.
All this prosperity was not yet; and Mr. Van Wyk prospered alone on the left bank on his deep clearing carved out of the forest, which came down above and below to the water's edge. His lonely bungalow faced across the river the houses of the Sultan: a restless and melancholy old ruler who had done with love and war, for whom life no longer held any savor (except of evil forebodings)
