THE SIGN OF THE HEART

Chapter 6

If the population of Johannesburg devoted its days to doing konza to King Scrip,

it devoted its nights to amusing itself. There was an enterprising theatrical

company and a lively circus. There was a menagerie, where an exceedingly fine

young woman was wont nightly to place her head within a lion's mouth for the

delectation, and to the enthusiastic admiration of Judæa, and all the region round

about. There were smoking-concerts galore—more or less good of their kind—

and, failing sporadic forms of pastime, there were numerous bars—and

barmaids, all of which counted for something in the relaxation of the forty

thousand inhabitants of Johannesburg—mostly brokers. We are forgetting. There

were other phases of nocturnal excitement, more or less of a stimulating nature

—frequent rows, to wit, culminating in a nasty rough-and-tumble, and now and

then a startling and barbarous murder.

Now, to Laurence Stanninghame not any of the above forms of diversion held

out the slightest possible attractiveness. The theatrical show struck him as thirdrate, and as for circuses and menageries, he supposed they had been good fun

when he was a child. He did not care twopence about the pleasures of the bar

unless he wanted a drink, and for barmaids and their allurements less than

nothing. So having already, with Rainsford or Wheeler, and seven other spirits

more wicked than themselves, gone the round three or four times, just to see

what there was to be seen, and found that not much, he had subsided into a good

bit of a stay-at-home. A pipe, a newspaper or book, and bed, would be his

evening program—normally, that is; for now and then he would stroll out to

Booyseus. But of that more anon.

The hotel at which he had taken up his quarters was rather a quiet one, and

frequented by quiet people. One set of rooms, among which was his, opened

upon a stoep, which fronted a yard, which opened upon the street. Here of an

evening he would drag a chair out upon the stoep and smoke and read, or

occasionally chat with some fellow-sojourner in the house.

One evening he was seated thus alone. Holmes, who had taken up his quarters at

the same hotel, was out, as usual. We say as usual because Holmes seldom stayed in at night. Holmes was young, and for him the "attractions" we have

striven to enumerate above, and others which we have not, were attractions. He

liked to go the round. He liked to see all there was to be seen. Well, he saw it.

One evening Laurence, seated thus alone, became aware that another man was

dragging a chair out upon the stoep, intending, like himself, to take the air.

Looking up, he saw that it was the man to whom nobody ever seemed to talk,

beyond exchanging the time of day, and that in the most curt and perfunctory

fashion. He had noticed, further, that this individual seemed no more anxious to

converse with other people than they were to converse with him. He himself had

never got beyond this stage with him, although on easy and friendly terms with

the other people staying in the house.

Yet the man had awakened in him a strange interest, a curiosity that was almost

acute; but beyond the fact that his name was Hazon, and the darkly veiled hints

on the part of those who alluded to the subject, that he was a ruffian of the

deepest dye, Laurence could learn nothing about him. He noted, however, that if

the man seemed disliked, he seemed about equally feared.

This Hazon was, in truth, somewhat of a remarkable individual. He was of

powerful build, standing about five feet nine. He had a strong, good-looking

face, the lower part hidden in a dark beard, and his eyes were black, piercing,

and rather deep set. The bronze hue of his complexion, and of the sinewy hands,

seemed to tell of a life of hardness and adventure; and the square jaw and

straight, piercing glance was that of a man who, when roused, would prove a

resolute, relentless, and a most dangerous enemy. In repose the face wore a

placidity which was almost that of melancholy.

In trying to estimate his years, Laurence owned himself puzzled again and again.

He might be about his own age or he might be a great deal older, that is,

anything from forty to sixty. But whatever his age, whatever his past, the man

was always the same, dark, self-possessed, coldly reticent, inscrutable,

somewhat of an awe-inspiring personality.

The nature of his business, too, was no more open than was his past history. He

had been some months in his present quarters, yet was not known to be doing

anything in scrip to any appreciable extent. The boom, the one engrossing idea

in the minds of all alike, seemed to hold no fascination for Hazon. To him it was

a matter of absolutely no importance. What the deuce, then, was he there for?

His impenetrable reserve, his out-of-the-common and striking personality, his rather sinister expression, had earned for him a nick-name. He was known all

over the Rand as "Pirate" Hazon, or more commonly "The Pirate," because,

declared the Rand, he looked like one, and at any rate ought to be hanged for

one, to make sure.

Nobody, however, cared to use the epithet within his hearing. People were afraid

of him. One day in the street a tough, swaggering bully, fearless in the

consciousness of his powers as a first-class boxer, lurched up against him,

deliberately, and with offensive intent. Those who witnessed the act stood by for

the phase of excitement dearest of all to their hearts, a row. There was that in

Hazon's look which told they were not to be disappointed.

"English manners?" he queried, in cutting, contemptuous tone.

"I'll teach you some," rejoined the fellow promptly. And without more ado he

dashed out a terrific left-hander, which the other just escaped receiving full in the

eye, but not entirely as to the cheekbone.

Hazon did not hit back, but what followed amazed even the bystanders. It was

like the spring of an animal—of a leopard or a bull-dog—combining the

lightning swiftness of the one with the grim, fell ferocity of purpose of the other.

The powerful rowdy was lying upon his back in the red dust, swinging flail-like

blows into empty air, and upon him, in leopard-like crouch, pressing him to the

earth, the man whom he had so wantonly attacked. And his throat was

compressed in those brown, lean, muscular fingers, as in a claw of steel. It was

horrible. His eyes were starting from his head; his face grew blue, then black; his

swollen tongue protruded hideously. His struggles were terrific, yet, powerful of

frame as he was, he seemed like a child in the grasp of a panther.

A shout of dismay, of warning, broke from the spectators, some of whom sprang

forward to separate the pair. But there was something so awful in the expression

of Hazon's countenance, in the glare of the coal-black eyes, in the drawn-in

brows and livid horror of fiendish wrath, that even they stopped short. It was, as

they said afterwards, as though they had looked into the blasting countenance of

a devil.

"Leave go!" they cried. "For God's sake, leave go! You're killing the man. He'll

be dead in a second longer."

Hazon relaxed his grasp, and stood upright. Beyond a slight heaving of the chest

attendant upon his exertion, he seemed as cool and collected as though nothing had happened.

"I believe you're right," he said, turning away. "Well, he isn't that yet."

The attention of the onlookers was concentrated on the prostrate bully, to restore

whom a doctor was promptly sent for from the most likely bar, for it was

midday. But all were constrained to allow that the fellow had only got what he

deserved, which consensus of opinion may or may not have been due to the fact

that he was, if anything, a trifle more unpopular than Hazon himself.

Now among those who had witnessed this scene from first to last was Laurence

Stanninghame. Not among those who would have interfered—oh, no—for did he

not hold it a primary tenet never, on any pretext, to interfere in what did not

concern him? nor did this principle in those days involve any effort to keep, all

impulse to violate it being long since dead. Moreover, if the last held good of the

badly damaged bully, society at large could not but be the gainer, since it was

clear that he was a fit representative of a class which is utterly destitute of any

redeeming point which should go to justify its unspeakably vicious, useless, and

rather dangerous existence.

This incident, while enhancing the respect in which Hazon was held, in no sense

tended to lessen his unpopularity, and indeed at that time nobody had a good

word to say for him. Either they said nothing, and looked the more, or they said

a word that was not good—oh, no, not good.

Now in spite of all such ill repute, possibly by reason of it, his temperament

being what it was, Laurence felt drawn towards this mysterious personage, for he

was pre-eminently one given to forming his own judgment instead of accepting

it ready made from d**k, Tom, and Harry. If Hazon was vindictive, why, so was

he; if unscrupulous, so could he be if driven to it. He resolved to find an

opportunity of cultivating the man, and if he could not find one he would make

it. Now he saw such an opportunity.

"What do you think of this rumor that the revolution in Brazil is going to knock

out our share market?" he said, suddenly looking up from the paper he was

reading.

"It may do that," answered Hazon. "This year's boom has been a mere sick

attempt at one. Wouldn't take much to knock out what little there is of it."

Laurence felt a cold qualm. There had been an ominous drop the last day or two. Still Rainsford and one or two others had recommended him to hold on. This

man spoke so quietly, yet withal so prophetically. What if he, in his inscrutable

way, were more than ordinarily in the know?

"Queer place this," pursued Hazon, the other having uttered a dubious

affirmative. "Taking it all round, it and its crowd, it's not far from the queerest

place I've ever seen in my life, and I've seen some queer places and some

queerish crowds."

"I expect you have. By the way, I suppose you've done a good deal of up-country

hunting?"

"A goodish deal. Are you fond of the gun? I notice you go out pretty often, but

there's nothing to shoot around here."

"I just am fond of it," replied Laurence. "If things turn out all right I shall cut in

with some fellow for an up-country trip if I can. Big game this time."

The other smiled darkly, enigmatically.

"Yes. That's real—real," he said. "Try some of this," handing his tobacco bag, as

Laurence began to scratch out his empty pipe, "unless, that is, you haven't got

over the new-comer's prejudice against the best tobacco in the world, the name

whereof is Transvaal."

"Thanks. No, I have no prejudice against it. On the contrary, as to its merits I am

disposed to agree with you."

Throughout this conversation Laurence, who had a keen ear for that sort of

thing, could not help noticing the other's voice. It was a pleasing voice, a

cultured voice, and refined withal, nor could his fastidious ear detect the faintest

trace of provincialism or vulgarity about it. The intonation was perfect. There is

nothing so quick to betray to the sensitive ear any strain of plebeian descent as

the voice, and of this no one was more thoroughly aware than Laurence

Stanninghame. This man, he decided, was of good birth.

The ice broken, they talked on, in the apparently careless, but in reality guarded

way which had become second nature to both of them. More than one strange

and very shady anecdote was Hazon able to narrate concerning the place and its

inhabitants, and especially concerning certain among the latter who ranked high

for morality, commercially or otherwise. There were actions done in their midst

every day, he declared, which, for barefaced and unscrupulous rascality, would put to the blush other actions for which the law would hang a man without

mercy, all other men applauding, but with this difference, that whereas the

former demanded a creeping and crawling cowardliness to insure success, the

latter involved iron nerve and the well-nigh daily shaking hands with death—

death, too, in many an appalling and ghastly form. All of which was "dark"

talking as far as Laurence was concerned, though the day was to come when its

meaning should stand forth as clear as a printed page.

Even now, however, he was not absolutely mystified—far from it, indeed; for he

himself was a hard thinker, owning an ever-vivid and busy brain. He could put

half a dozen meanings to any one or other of his companion's utterances, and

among them probably the right one. And, as they talked on, he became alive to

something almost magnetic—a sort of subtile, compelling force—about Hazon.

Was it his voice or manner or general aspect, or a combination of all three? He

could not tell. He could only realize that it existed.

For some days after this conversation the two men did not come together, though

they would nod the time of day to each other as before, and Laurence, who had

other considerations upon his hands—monetary and agreeable—did not give the

matter a thought. At last he noticed that Hazon's place at the table was vacant—

remembering, too, that it had been so for a day or two. Had he left?

To his inquiries on that head he obtained scant and uncordial response. Hazon

was ill, some believed, while others charitably opined that he was "on the

booze." Whatever it was no one cared, and strongly recommended Laurence to

do likewise.

The latter, we have shown, was peculiarly unsusceptible to public opinion,

which, if it influenced him at all, did so in the very opposite direction to that

which was intended. Accordingly, he now made up his mind to ascertain the

truth for himself—to which end he found himself speedily knocking at the door

of Hazon's room, the while marvelling at his own unwonted perturbation lest his

overture should be regarded as an intrusion.

"Heard you were ill," he said shortly, having entered in obedience to the

responsive "Come in." "Rough luck being ill in a place like this, or indeed in any

place, for that matter. Thought I'd see if there's anything I could do for you."

"Very good of you, Stanninghame. Sit down there on that box—it's lower than

the chair, and therefore more comfortable. Yes, I feel a bit knocked out. A touch

of the old up-country shivers, or something of the kind. It's a thing you never entirely pull round from, once you've had it. I'll be all right, though, in a day or

two."

The speaker was lying on his bed, clad in his trousers and shirt. The latter, open

from the throat, revealed part of a great livid scar, running diagonally across the

swarthy chest, and representing what must have been a terrific s***h. Two other

scars also showed on the muscular forearm, half-way between elbow and wrist.

What was it to Laurence whether this person or that person lived or died? Why,

nothing. Yet there was something so pathetic, so helpless in the aspect of the

man, lying there day after day, patient, solitary, uncomplaining—shunned and

avoided by those around—that appealed powerfully to his feelings. Heavens!

was he turning soft-hearted at his time of life, that he should feel so

unaccountably stirred by the bare act of coming to visit this ailing and

unbefriended stranger?

In truth, there was nothing awe-inspiring about the latter now. His piercing black

eyes seemed large and soft; the expression of his dark face was one of weariful

helplessness, yet of schooled patience. A queer thought flashed through

Laurence's brain. Was it in Hazon's power to produce whatever effect he chose

upon the minds of others? Had he chosen, for some inscrutable purpose, to

render himself shunned and feared? Was he now, on like principle, adopting the

surest means to win over to him this one man who had sought him out on his

lonely sick-bed? and if so, to what end? It was more than a passing thought, nor

from that moment onward could Laurence ever get it entirely out of his mind.

"Fill your pipe, Stanninghame," said Hazon, breaking into this train of thought,

which, all unconsciously, had entailed a long gap of silence. "I don't in the least

mind smoke, although I can't blow off a cloud myself just now—at least I have

no inclination that way," he added, reaching for a bottle of white powder which

stood upon a box by the bedside, and mixing himself a modicum of quinine.

"Had a doctor of any sort, Hazon?"

"What good would that do—except to the doctor? I know what's the matter with

me, and I know exactly what to do for it. I don't want to pay another fellow a

couple of guineas or so to tell me. Not but what doctors have their uses—in

wounds and surgery, for instance. But I'm curiously like an animal. When I get

anything the matter with me—which I don't often—I like to creep away and lie

low. I like to take it alone."

"Well, I'm built rather that way myself, Hazon. I won't apologize for intruding, because you know as well as I do that no such consideration enters into the

matter. Still, I want you to know that if there's anything I can do for you, you

have only to say so."

"Thanks. You are not quite like—other people, Stanninghame. Life is no great

thing, is it, that everybody should stir up such a mighty fuss about clearing out of

it?"

"No, it's no great thing," assented Laurence darkly. "Yet it might be made so."

"How that?"

"With wealth. With wealth you can do anything—command anything—buy

anything. They say that wealth won't purchase life, but very often it will."

"You're about three parts right. It will, for instance, enable a man to lead the life

he needs in order to preserve his physical and mental vigour at its highest. Even

from the moralist's point of view it is all round desirable, for nothing is so

morally deteriorating as a life of narrow and cramped pinching, when all one's

best years are spent in hungering and longing for what one will never again

attain."

"You speak like a book, Hazon," said Laurence, not wondering that the other

should have sized up his own case so exhaustively—not wondering, because he

was an observer of human nature and a character-reader himself. Then, bitterly,

"Yet that pumpkin-pated entity, the ponderous moralist, would contend that the

lack of all that made life worth living was good as a stimulus to urge to exertion,

and all the hollow old clap-trap."

"Quite so. But how many attain to the reward—the end of the said exertion? Not

one in a hundred. And then, in nine cases out of ten, how does that one do it? By

fraud, and thieving, and over-reaching, and sycophancy—in short, by running

through the whole gamut of the scale of rascality—rascality of the meaner kind,

mark you. Then when this winner in the battle of life comes out top, the world

crowns him with fat and fulsome eulogy, and falls down and worships his

cheque-book, crying, 'Behold a self-made man; go thou and do likewise!'"

"You've not merely hit the right nail on the head, Hazon, but you've driven it

right home," said Laurence decisively, recognizing that here was a man after his

own heart. Two or three days went by before Hazon felt able or inclined to leave his bed,

and a good part of each was spent by Laurence sitting in the sick man's room and

talking. And it may have been that the lonely man felt cheered by the

companionship and the friendliness that proffered it, what time all others held

aloof; or that the two were akin in ideas, or both; but henceforward a sort of

intimacy struck up between them, and it was noticed that Hazon no longer went

about invariably alone. Then people began to look somewhat queerly at

Laurence.

"You and 'the Pirate' have become quite thick together, Stanninghame," said

Rainsford one day, meeting him alone.

"Well, why not?" answered Laurence, rather shortly, resenting the inquisitional

nature of the question. Then point blank, "See here, Rainsford. Why are you all

so down on the man? What has he done, anyway?"

"You needn't get your shirt out, old chap," was the answer, quite goodhumouredly. "Look here, now—we are alone together—so just between

ourselves. Do you notice how all of these up-country going fellows shunt him—

Wheeler, for instance? and Garway, who is at your hotel, never speaks to him.

And Garway, you'll admit, is as good a fellow as ever lived."

"Yes, I'll own up to that. What then?"

"Only this, that they know a good deal that we don't."

"Well, what do they know—or say they know?"

"Look here, Stanninghame," said Rainsford, rather mysteriously, "has Hazon

ever told you any of his up-country experiences?"

"A few—yes."

"Did he ever suggest you should take a trip with him?"

"We have even discussed that possibility."

"Ah——!" Then Rainsford gave a long whistle, and his voice became

impressive as he resumed: "Watch it, Stanninghame. From time to time other

men have gone up country with Hazon, but—not one of them has ever returned."

"Oh, that's what you're all down on him about, is it?" The other nodded; then, with a "so-long," he cut across the street and

disappeared into an office where he had business.