This is not satire, but a statement with a reservation. There are certain native men who embrace the faith and lose quality thereby, but Fembeni was a Christian and a better man–except–

Here is another reservation.

Up at Mosunkusu a certain Ruth Glandynne laboured for the cause, she, as I have previously described, being a medical missionary, and pretty to boot.

White folk would call her pretty because she had regular features, a faultless complexion, and a tall, well-modelled figure.

Black folk thought she was plain, because her lips were not as they should be by convention; nor was she developed according to their standards.

Also, from N’Gombi point of view, her fair, long hair was ridiculous, and her features “like a bird.”

Mr. Commissioner Sanders thought she was very pretty indeed–when he allowed himself to think about her.

He did not think about her more often than he could help, for two reasons–the only one that is any business of yours and mine being that she was an enormous responsibility. He had little patches of white hair on either side of his temple–when he allowed his hair to grow long enough for these to become visible–which he called grimly his “missionary hairs.” The safety of the solitary stations set in the wilds was a source of great worry.

You must understand that missionaries are very good people. Those ignoramuses who sneer at them place themselves in the same absurd position as those who sneer at Nelson or speak slightingly of other heroes.

Missionaries take terrible risks–they cut themselves adrift from the material life which is worth the living; they endure hardships incomprehensible to the uninitiated; they suffer from tempestuous illnesses which find them hale and hearty in the morning and leave their feeble bodies at the edge of death at sunset.

“And all this they do,” said Bosambo of Monrovia, philosophically and thoughtfully, “because of certain mysteries which happened when the world was young and a famous Man called Hesu.* Now I think that is the greatest mystery of all.” [* The Third Person of the Trinity is so called in some dialects.]

Sanders appreciated the disinterestedness of the work, was immensely impressed by the courage of the people who came to labour in the unhealthy field, but all the time he fretfully wished they wouldn’t.

His feelings were those of a professional lion-tamer who sees a light-hearted amateur stepping into the cage of the most savage of his beasts; they were feelings of the skilled matador who watches the novice’s awkward handling of an Andalusian bull–a troubled matador with a purple cloak held ready and one neatly-shod foot on the barrier, ready to spring into the ring at the novello’s need.

The “missionary patches” grew larger and whiter in the first few months of Ruth Glandynne’s presence at Musunkusu, for this village was too near to the wild N’Gombi, too near the erratic Isisi, for Sanders’ liking.

Sanders might easily have made a mistake in his anxiety. He might have sent messengers to the two peoples, or gone in person–threatening them with death and worse than death if they harmed the girl.

But that would have aroused a sense of importance in their childlike bosoms, and when the time came, as it assuredly would come, when their stomachs were angry against him, some chief would say:

“Behold, here is a woman who is the core of Sandi’s eye. If we do her harm we shall be revenged on Sandi.”

And, since children do not know any other tomorrow than the tomorrow of good promise, it would have gone badly with the lady missionary.

Instead, Sanders laid upon Bosambo, chief of the Ochori, charge of this woman, and Bosambo he trusted in all big things, though in the matter of goods movable and goods convertible he had no such confidence.

When Fembeni of the Isisi was converted from paganism to Christianity, Sanders was fussing about the little creeks which abound on the big river, looking for a man named Oko, who after a long and mysterious absence had returned to his village, killed his wife, and fled to the bush.

The particular bush happened to be in the neighbourhood of the mission station, otherwise Sanders might have been content to allow his policemen to carry out the good work, but no sooner did news come that Oko had broken for that section of the N’Gombi country which impinges on Musunkusu, than Sanders went flying up river in his steamer because something told him he had identified one of the nine men.

Wrote Sergt. Ahmed, the Houssa, who prided himself on his English, to his wife at headquarters:

“At daylight, when search for murderer was officially resumed, came our Lord Sundah very actively angry. By orders I took left bank of Kulula River with three men, being ordered to shoot aforesaid Oko if resistance offered. Abiboo (sergeant) took right or other bank, and our lord searched bush. Truly Oko must be a very important man that Sundah comes officially searching for same, saying bitter reproach words to his humble servants.”

Ahmed’s picture of his chief’s agitation may be a little exaggerated, but I do not doubt that there was a substratum of fact therein.

On the second day of the hunt, Sanders’ steamer was tied up at the mission station, and he found himself walking in the cool of the evening with Ruth Glandynne. So he learnt about Fembeni, the Isisi man who had found the light and was hot and eager for salvation.

“H’m!” said Sanders, displaying no great enthusiasm.

But she was too elated over her first convert to notice the lack of warmth in his tone.

“It is just splendid,” she said, her grey eyes alight and her pretty face kindling with the thought, “especially when you remember, Mr. Sanders, that I have only an imperfect knowledge of the language.”

“Are you sure,” asked the incredulous Sanders, “that Fembeni understands what it is all about?”

“Oh, yes!” She smiled at the Commissioner’s simplicity. “Why, he met me half-way, as it were; he came out to meet the truth; he–“

“Fembeni?” said Sanders thoughtfully. “I think I know the man; if I remember him aright he is not the sort of person who would get religion if he did not see a strong business end to it.”

She frowned a little. Her eyebrows made a level line over resentful eyes.

“I think that is unworthy of you,” she said coldly.

He looked at her, the knuckle of his front finger at his lips.

She was very pretty, he thought, or else he had been so long removed from the society of white women that she seemed beautiful only because she stood before a background of brutal ugliness.

Slim, straight, grave-eyed, complexion faultless, though tanned by the African sun, features regular and delicate, hair (a quantity) russet-brown.

Sanders shook his head.

“I wish to heaven you weren’t monkeying about in this infernal country,” he said.

“That is beside the question,” she replied with a little smile. “We are talking of Fembeni, and I think you are being rather horrid.”

They reached the big square hut that Sanders had built for her, and climbed the wooden steps that led to the stoep.

Sanders made no reply, but when she had disappeared into the interior of the hut to make him some tea, he beckoned to Abiboo, who had followed him at a respectful distance.

“Go you,” he said, “and bring me Fembeni of the Isisi.”

He was stirring his tea whilst the girl was giving him a rosy account of her work, when Fembeni came, a tall man of middle age, wearing the trousers and waistcoat which were the outward and visible signs of his inward and spiritual grace.

“Come near, Fembeni,” said Sanders gently.

The man walked with confidence up the steps of the stoep, and without invitation drew a chair towards him and seated himself.

Sanders said nothing. He looked at the man for a very long time, then:

“Who asked you to sit in my presence?” he said softly.

“Lord,” said Fembeni pompously, “since I have found the blessed truth–“

Something in Sanders’ eyes caused him to rise hurriedly.

“You may sit–on the ground,” said Sanders quietly, “after the manner of your people, and I will sit on this chair after the manner of mine. For behold, Fembeni, even the blessed truth shall not make black white or white black; nor shall it make you equal with Sandi, who is your master.”

“Lord, that is so,” said the sullen Fembeni, “yet we are all equal in the eyes of the great One.”

“Then there are a million people in the Isisi, in the N’Gombi, the Akasava, and the Ochori, who are your equals,” said Sanders, “and it is no shame for you to do as they do.”

Which was unanswerable, according to Fembeni’s sense of logic.

The girl had listened to the talk between her novitiate and the commissioner with rising wrath, for she had not Sanders’ knowledge of native people.

“I think that is rather small of you, Mr. Sanders,” she said hotly. “It is a much more important matter that a heathen should be brought to the truth than that your dignity should be preserved.”

Sanders frowned horribly–he had no society manners and was not used to disputation.

“I do not agree with you, Miss Glandynne,” he said a little gruffly, “for, whilst the Isisi cannot see the ecstatic condition of his soul which leads him to be disrespectful to me, they can and do see the gross materialism of his sotting body.”

A thought struck him and he turned to the man. That thought made all the difference between life and death to Fembeni.

“Fembeni,” he said, relapsing into the language of the Isisi, “you are a rich man by all accounts.”

“Lord, it is so.”

“And wives–how many have you?”

“Four, lord.”

Sanders nodded and turned to the girl.

“He has four wives,” he said.

“Well?”

There was a hint of defiance in the questioning “Well?”

“He has four wives,” repeated Sanders. “What is your view on this matter?”

“He shall marry one in the Christian style,” she said, flushing. “Oh, you know, Mr. Sanders, it is impossible for a man to be a Christian and have more wives than one!”

Sanders turned to the man again.

“In this matter of wives, Fembeni,” he said gently; “how shall you deal with the women of your house?”

Fembeni wriggled his bare shoulders uncomfortably.

“Lord, I shall put them all away, save one,” he said sulkily, “for that is the blessed way.”

“H’m!” said Sanders for the second time that morning.

He was silent for a long time, then:

“It is rather a problem,” he said.

“It presents no difficulty to my mind,” said the girl stiffly.

She was growing very angry, though Sanders did not realise the fact, being unused to the ways of white women.

“I think it is rather horrid of you, Mr. Sanders, to discourage this man, to put obstacles in his faith–“

“I put no obstacle,” interrupted the Commissioner. He was short of speech, being rather so intent upon his subject that he took no account of the fine feelings of a zealous lady missionary. “But I cannot allow this to happen in my district; this man has four wives, each of them has borne him children. What justice or what Christianity is there in turning loose three women who have served this man?”

Here was a problem for the girl, and in her desperation she used an argument which was unanswerable.

“The law allows this,” she said. “These things happen all over the world where missionary work is in progress.