THE IVORY CHILD

CHAPTER I

ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON

Now I, Allan Quatermain, come to the story of what was, perhaps, one of
the strangest of all the adventures which have befallen me in the course
of a life that so far can scarcely be called tame or humdrum.

Amongst many other things it tells of the war against the Black Kendah
people and the dead of Jana, their elephant god. Often since then I
have wondered if this creature was or was not anything more than a mere
gigantic beast of the forest. It seems improbable, even impossible, but
the reader of future days may judge of this matter for himself.

Also he can form his opinion as to the religion of the White Kendah and
their pretensions to a certain degree of magical skill. Of this magic
I will make only one remark: If it existed at all, it was by no means
infallible. To take a single instance, Harût and Marût were convinced
by divination that I, and I only, could kill Jana, which was why they
invited me to Kendahland. Yet in the end it was Hans who killed him.
Jana nearly killed me!

Now to my tale.



In another history, called "The Holy Flower," I have told how I came to
England with a young gentleman of the name of Scroope, partly to see him
safely home after a hunting accident, and partly to try to dispose of
a unique orchid for a friend of mine called Brother John by the white
people, and Dogeetah by the natives, who was popularly supposed to be
mad, but, in fact, was very sane indeed. So sane was he that he pursued
what seemed to be an absolutely desperate quest for over twenty years,
until, with some humble assistance on my part, he brought it to a
curiously successful issue. But all this tale is told in "The Holy
Flower," and I only allude to it here, that is at present, to explain
how I came to be in England.

While in this country I stayed for a few days with Scroope, or, rather,
with his fiancée and her people, at a fine house in Essex. (I called it
Essex to avoid the place being identified, but really it was one of the
neighbouring counties.) During my visit I was taken to see a much finer
place, a splendid old castle with brick gateway towers, that had been
wonderfully well restored and turned into a most luxurious modern
dwelling. Let us call it "Ragnall," the seat of a baron of that name.

I had heard a good deal about Lord Ragnall, who, according to all
accounts, seemed a kind of Admirable Crichton. He was said to be
wonderfully handsome, a great scholar--he had taken a double first at
college; a great athlete--he had been captain of the Oxford boat at the
University race; a very promising speaker who had already made his mark
in the House of Lords; a sportsman who had shot tigers and other large
game in India; a poet who had published a successful volume of verse
under a pseudonym; a good solider until he left the Service; and lastly,
a man of enormous wealth, owning, in addition to his estates, several
coal mines and an entire town in the north of England.

"Dear me!" I said when the list was finished, "he seems to have been
born with a whole case of gold spoons in his mouth. I hope one of them
will not choke him," adding: "Perhaps he will be unlucky in love."

"That's just where he is most lucky of all," answered the young lady to
whom I was talking--it was Scroope's fiancée, Miss Manners--"for he is
engaged to a lady that, I am told, is the loveliest, sweetest, cleverest
girl in all England, and they absolutely adore each other."

"Dear me!" I repeated. "I wonder what Fate _has_ got up its sleeve for
Lord Ragnall and his perfect lady-love?"

I was doomed to find out one day.

So it came about that when, on the following morning, I was asked if
I would like to see the wonders of Ragnall Castle, I answered "Yes."
Really, however, I wanted to have a look at Lord Ragnall himself, if
possible, for the account of his many perfections had impressed the
imagination of a poor colonist like myself, who had never found an
opportunity of setting his eyes upon a kind of human angel. Human devils
I had met in plenty, but never a single angel--at least, of the male
sex. Also there was always the possibility that I might get a glimpse
of the still more angelic lady to whom he was engaged, whose name,
I understood, was the Hon. Miss Holmes. So I said that nothing would
please me more than to see this castle.

Thither we drove accordingly through the fine, frosty air, for the month
was December. On reaching the castle, Mr. Scroope was told that Lord
Ragnall, whom he knew well, was out shooting somewhere in the park, but
that, of course, he could show his friend over the place.