The correspondent of The Times at Kurù, in a long course of articles, which did more than anything else to teach the monied classes what the M’Korio might mean, never once mentioned the company nor any of its supporters—and there are conditions under which such neutrality is dangerous.
Against all this Mr Barnett bore up with an heroic tenacity.
There was but one feature in all the field before him which gave him any serious anxiety, and this was that unhappy vacillation which I have already so often shown Mr Burden to have displayed, from the moment that he plunged into efforts ill-suited to his training and experience.
It was necessary, upon the face of it, that Mr Abbott should be invited to join the original promoters, to “chip in,” as Mr Barnett put it in somewhat excessive joviality of phrase.
But Mr Abbott was Faroosh. None but Mr Burden could approach him, and frequently as he had been asked to do so, Mr Burden hesitated; a childish hesitation; a man shrinking from a scene.
But if Mr Abbott’s directorship could wait, there were other and more disquieting symptoms in Mr Burden’s manner. He had fits of silence. For days he saw eye to eye with all his colleagues—and then, suddenly, a note would come, short, querulous, excusing himself from attending the most important functions. At last, during the great reception in the beginning of July, Mr Barnett grew seriously concerned.
My pen has not the leisure to describe the brilliancy of that function. It was a scene which could not be matched in any capital of Europe, hardly in London itself, elsewhere than in the little district which is bounded on the north by Hyde Park Square and Seymour Street, on the east by Park Street, on the south and west by the misty distances of Hyde Park. It was worthy of all that was said of it in the Morning Post upon the one hand, in the Indépendence Belge upon the other—but I can mention it only in connection with Mr Burden’s distressing mutability.
One thing had given Mr Barnett real hope; and that was Mr Burden’s attitude towards what I may call the more common-place side of all this matter of the M’Korio. A very genuine interest had appeared in the old man’s face whenever he discussed the history or the geography of the M’Korio. There ran through his character that tendency towards futile pottering which led our grandfathers—with a mighty empire before them—to waste their energies upon the foundation of learned societies. During those enormous dinners, where every celebrity had elbowed him, Mr Burden had often given cause for the very gravest fears to the more masterful mind of the leader. But whenever he had an opportunity of discussing Dr Mohl’s pamphlet with such experts as M. Sabbat or Canon Cone, his animation and delight relieved Mr Barnett’s apprehension. On the famous night when the first of our geologists maintained the undoubted presence of gold in the M’Korio, and when, in the startled silence that followed, Mr Barnett (smiling that famous smile) had handed the model of the nugget from guest to guest, Mr Burden, ignoring all that the news portended for his country, showed an excited interest in the unique geological conditions which could produce metallic deposits in a deep bed of decomposing vegetable matter.
It was with confidence, therefore, that, on the occasion of this great reception at Barnett House, the host led Mr Burden proudly forward to present him to Major Pondo, whose book, “The African River,” had during the past six days marked him out as the chief expert upon that region.
The centre of every remark, the chief object of every introduction throughout the evening, and now, upon Mr Burden’s late arrival the natural recipient of his views, Major Pondo was for the moment one of the land marks of London.