One of the missionaries opened the barred door cautiously. "What do you want?" he asked in Fantee of the bare-legged savage3, who stood crouching4 by the threshold.
"I bring a message from Missionary5 John Creedy," the bare-legged savage answered, also in Fantee. "He wants European clothes."
"Has he sent a letter?" asked the missionary.
John Creedy took the folded piece of paper from his palm. The missionary read it. It told him in a few words how the Butabué people had pillaged6 John's hut at night and stolen his clothing, and how he could not go outside his door till he got some European dress again.
"This is strange," said the missionary. "Brother Felton died three days ago of the fever. You can take his clothes to Brother Creedy, if you will."
The bare-limbed savage nodded acquiescence7. The missionary looked hard at him, and fancied he had seen his face before, but he never even for a moment suspected that he was speaking to John Creedy himself.
A bundle was soon made of dead Brother Felton's clothes, and the bare-limbed man took it in his arms and prepared to run back again the whole way to Butabué.
"You have had nothing to eat," said the lonely missionary. "Won't you take something to help you on your way?"
"Give me some plantain paste," answered John Creedy. "I can eat it as I go." And when they gave it him he forgot himself for the moment, and answered, "Thank you" in English. The missionary stared, but thought it[Pg 17] was only a single phrase that he had picked up at Butabué, and that he was anxious, negro-fashion, to air his knowledge.
Back through the jungle, with the bundle in his arms, John Creedy wormed his way once more, like a snake or a tiger, never pausing or halting on the road till he found himself again in the open space outside the village of Butabué. There he stayed awhile, and behind a clump8 of wild ginger9, he opened the bundle and arrayed himself once more from head to foot in English clerical dress. That done, too proud to slink, he walked bold and erect10 down the main alley11, and quietly entered his own hut. It was high noon, the baking high noon of Africa, as he did so.
Ethel lay unconscious still upon the bed. The negro woman crouched12, half asleep after her night's watching, at the foot. John Creedy looked at his watch, which stood hard by on the little wooden table. "Sixty miles in fourteen hours," he said aloud. "Better time by a great deal than when we walked from Oxford13 to the White Horse, eighteen months since." And then he sat down silently by Ethel's bedside.
"Has she moved her eyes?" he asked the negress.
"Never, John Creedy," answered the woman. Till last night she had always called him "Master."
He watched the lifeless face for an hour or two. There was no change in it till about four o'clock; then Ethel's eyes began to alter their expression. He saw the dilated14 pupils contract a little, and knew that consciousness was gradually returning.
In a moment more she looked round at him and gave a little cry. "John," she exclaimed, with a sort of awakening15 hopefulness in her voice, "where on earth did you get those clothes?"
"These clothes?" he answered softly. "Why, you must be wandering in[Pg 18] your mind, Ethie dearest, to ask such a question now. At Standen's, in the High at Oxford, my darling." And he passed his black hand gently across her loose hair.
Ethel gave a great cry of joy. "Then it was a dream, a horrid16 dream, John, or a terrible mistake? Oh, John, say it was a dream!"
John drew his hand across his forehead slowly. "Ethie darling," he said, "you are wandering, I'm afraid. You have a bad fever. I don't know what you mean."
"Then you didn't tear them up, and wear a Fantee dress, and dance with a tom-tom down the street? Oh, John!"
"Oh, Ethel! No. What a terrible delirium17 you must have had!"
"It is all well," she said. "I don't mind if I die now." And she sank back exhausted18 into a sort of feverish19 sleep.
"John Creedy," said the black catechist's wife solemnly, in Fantee, "you will have to answer for that lie to a dying woman with your soul!"
"My soul!" cried John Creedy passionately20, smiting21 both breasts with his clenched22 fists. "My soul! Do you think, you negro wench, I wouldn't give my poor, miserable23, black soul to eternal torments24 a thousand times over, if only I could give her little white heart one moment's forgetfulness before she dies?"
For five days longer Ethel lingered in the burning fever, sometimes conscious for a minute or two, but for the most part delirious25 or drowsy26 all the time. She never said another word to John about her terrible dream, and John never said another word to her. But he sat by her side and tended her like a woman, doing everything that was possible for her in the bare little hut, and devouring27 his full heart with a horrible gnawing28 remorse29 too deep for pen or tongue to probe and fathom30. For civilization with John Creedy was really at bottom far more than a mere[Pg 19] veneer31; though the savage instincts might break out with him now and again, such outbursts no more affected32 his adult and acquired nature than a single bump supper or wine party at college affects the nature of many a gentle-minded English lad. The truest John Creedy of all was the gentle, tender, English clergyman.
As he sat by her bedside sleepless33 and agonized34, night and day for five days together, one prayer only rose to his lips time after time: "Heaven grant she may die!" He had depth enough in the civilized35 side of his soul to feel that that was the only way to save her from a lifelong shame. "If she gets well," he said to himself, trembling, "I will leave this accursed Africa at once. I will work my way back to England as a common sailor, and send her home by the mail with my remaining money. I will never inflict36 my presence upon her again, for she cannot be persuaded, if once she recovers, that she did not see me, as she did see me, a bare-limbed heathen Fantee brandishing37 a devilish tom-tom. But I shall get work in England—not a parson's; that I can never be again—but clerk's work, labourer's work, navvy's work, anything! Look at my arms: I rowed five in the Magdalen eight: I could hold a spade as well as any man. I will toil38, and slave, and save, and keep her still like a lady, if I starve for it myself, but she shall never see my face again, if once she recovers. Even then it will be a living death for her, poor angel! There is only one hope—Heaven grant she may die!"
On the fifth day she opened her eyes once. John saw that his prayer was about to be fulfilled. "John," she said feebly—"John, tell me, on your honour, it was only my delirium."
And John, raising his hand to heaven, splendide mendax, answered in a firm voice, "I swear it."
Ethel smiled and shut her eyes. It was for the last time.
Next morning, John Creedy—tearless, but parched39 and dry in the mouth,[Pg 20] like one stunned40 and unmanned—took a pickaxe and hewed41 out a rude grave in the loose soil near the river. Then he fashioned a rough coffin42 from twisted canes43 with his own hands, and in it he reverently44 placed the sacred body. He allowed no one to help him or come near him—not even his fellow-Christians, the catechist and his wife: Ethel was too holy a thing for their African hands to touch. Next he put on his white surplice, and for the first and only time in his life he read, without a quaver in his voice, the Church of England burial service over the open grave. And when he had finished he went back to his desolate45 hut, and cried with a loud voice of utter despair, "The one thing that bound me to civilization is gone. Henceforth I shall never speak another word of English. I go to my own people." So saying, he solemnly tore up his European clothes once more, bound a cotton loin-cloth round his waist, covered his head with dirt, and sat fasting and wailing46 piteously, like a broken-hearted child, in his cabin.
Nowadays, the old half-caste Portuguese47 rum-dealer at Butabué can point out to any English pioneer who comes up the river which one, among a crowd of dilapidated negroes who lie basking48 in the soft dust outside his hut, was once the Reverend John Creedy, B.A., of Magdalen College, Oxford.
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1
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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8
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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12
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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14
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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16
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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22
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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27
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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31
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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35
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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36
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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40
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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43
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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44
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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45
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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46
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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47
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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48
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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