I know he will. And I"m only prevented from saying all I think of him and how much I love him, by the fear that he"ll become perfectly unmanageable.
d.i.c.k.
Spare me these chaste blushes which mantle my youthful brow. Will you pour out the tea ... Nellie?
MRS. CROWLEY.
Yes ... d.i.c.k.
[_She sits down at the tea-table and_ d.i.c.k _makes himself comfortable in an arm-chair by her side_.
ALEC.
Well, I"m thankful to say that everything"s packed and ready.
MRS. CROWLEY.
I wish you"d stay for our wedding.
d.i.c.k.
Do. You can go just as well by the next boat.
ALEC.
I"m afraid that everything is settled now. I"ve given instructions at Zanzibar to collect bearers, and I must arrive as quickly as I can.
d.i.c.k.
I wish to goodness you"d give up these horrible explorations.
ALEC.
But they"re the very breath of my life. You don"t know the exhilaration of the daily dangers--the joy of treading where only the wild beasts have trodden before. Oh, already I can hardly bear my impatience when I think of the boundless country and the enchanting freedom. Here one grows so small, so despicable, but in Africa everything is built to a n.o.bler standard. There a man is really a man; there one knows what are will and strength and courage. Oh, you don"t know what it is to stand on the edge of some great plain and breathe the pure keen air after the terrors of the forest. Then at last you know what freedom is.
d.i.c.k.
The boundless plain of Hyde Park is enough for me, and the aspect of Piccadilly on a fine day in June gives me quite as many emotions as I want.
MRS. CROWLEY.
But what will you gain by it all, now that your work in East Africa is over, by all the dangers and the hardships?
ALEC.
Nothing. I want to gain nothing. Perhaps I shall discover some new species of antelope or some unknown plant. Perhaps I shall find some new waterway. That is all the reward I want. I love the sense of power and mastery. What do you think I care for the tinsel rewards of kings and peoples?
d.i.c.k.
I always said you were melodramatic. I never heard anything so transpontine.
MRS. CROWLEY.
And the end of it, what will be the end?
ALEC.
The end is death in some fever-stricken swamp, obscurely, worn out by exposure and ague and starvation. And the bearers will seize my gun and my clothes and leave me to the jackals.
MRS. CROWLEY.
Don"t. It"s too horrible.
ALEC.
Why, what does it matter? I shall die standing up. I shall go the last journey as I have gone every other.
MRS. CROWLEY.
Without fear?
d.i.c.k.
For all the world like the wicked baronet: Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!
MRS. CROWLEY.
Don"t you want men to remember you?
ALEC.
Perhaps they will. Perhaps in a hundred years or so, in some flourishing town where I discovered nothing but wilderness, they will commission a second-rate sculptor to make a fancy statue of me. And I shall stand in front of the Stock Exchange, a convenient perch for birds, to look eternally upon the various shabby deeds of human kind.
[_During this speech_ MRS. CROWLEY _makes a sign to_ d.i.c.k, _who walks slowly away and goes out_.
MRS. CROWLEY.
And is that really everything? I can"t help thinking that at the bottom of your heart is something that you"ve never told to a living soul.
[_He gives her a long look, and then after a moment"s thought breaks into a little smile._
ALEC.
Why do you want to know so much?
MRS. CROWLEY.
Tell me.