Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  Again she glanced at Clayton. He was very handsome and every inch a gentleman. She should be very proud of such a husband.

  And then he spoke — a minute sooner or a minute later might have made all the difference in the world to three lives — but chance stepped in and pointed out to Clayton the psychological moment.

  “You are free now, Jane,” he said. “Won’t you say yes — I will devote my life to making you very happy.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  That evening in the little waiting room at the station Tarzan caught Jane Porter alone for a moment.

  “You are free now, Jane,” he said, “and I have come across the ages out of the dim and distant past from the lair of the primeval man to claim you — for your sake I have become a civilized man — for your sake I have crossed oceans and continents — for your sake I will be whatever you will me to be. I can make you happy, Jane, in the life you know and love best. Will you marry me?”

  For the first time she realized the depths of the man’s love — all that he had accomplished in so short a time solely for love of her. Turning her head she buried her face in her arms.

  What had she done? Because she had been afraid she might succumb to the pleas of this giant, she had burned her bridges behind her — in her groundless apprehension that she might make a terrible mistake, she had made a worse one.

  And then she told him all — told him the truth word by word, without attempting to shield herself or condone her error.

  “What can we do?” he asked. “You have admitted that you love me. You know that I love you; but I do not know the ethics of society by which you are governed. I shall leave the decision to you, for you know best what will be for your eventual welfare.”

  “I cannot tell him, Tarzan,” she said. “He, too, loves me, and he is a good man. I could never face you nor any other honest person if I repudiated my promise to Mr. Clayton.

  “I shall have to keep it — and you must help me bear the burden, though we may not see each other again after tonight.”

  The others were entering the room now and Tarzan turned toward the little window.

  But he saw nothing without — within he saw a patch of greensward surrounded by a matted mass of gorgeous tropical plants and flowers, and, above, the waving foliage of mighty trees, and over all, the blue of an equatorial sky.

  In the center of the greensward a young woman sat upon a little mound of earth, and beside her sat a young giant. They ate pleasant fruit and looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. They were very happy, and they were all alone.

  His thoughts were broken in upon by the station agent who entered asking if there was a gentleman by the name of Tarzan in the party.

  “I am Monsieur Tarzan,” said the ape-man.

  “Here is a message for you, forwarded from Baltimore; it is a cablegram from Paris.”

  Tarzan took the envelope and tore it open. The message was from D’Arnot.

  It read:

  Finger prints prove you Greystoke. Congratulations.

  D’ARNOT.

  As Tarzan finished reading Clayton entered, and came toward him with extended hand.

  Here was the man who had Tarzan’s title, and Tarzan’s estates, and was going to marry the woman whom Tarzan loved — the woman who loved Tarzan. A single word from Tarzan would make a great difference in this man’s life.

  It would take away his title and his lands and his castles, and — it would take them away from Jane Porter also.

  “I say, old man,” cried Clayton, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for all you’ve done for us. It seems as though you had your hands full saving our lives in Africa and here.

  “I’m awfully glad you came on here. We must get better acquainted. I often thought about you, you know, and the remarkable circumstances of your environment.

  “If it’s any of my business, how the devil did you ever get into that bally jungle?”

  “I was born there,” said Tarzan, quietly. “My mother was an Ape, and of course she couldn’t tell me much about it. I never knew who my father was.”

  THE END

  THE RETURN OF TARZAN (1913)

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 1

  The Affair on the Liner

  “Magnifique!” ejaculated the Countess de Coude, beneath her breath.

  “Eh?” questioned the count, turning toward his young wife. “What is it that is magnificent?” and the count bent his eyes in various directions in quest of the object of her admiration.

  “Oh, nothing at all, my dear,” replied the countess, a slight flush momentarily coloring her already pink cheek. “I was but recalling with admiration those stupendous skyscrapers, as they call them, of New York,” and the fair countess settled herself more comfortably in her steamer chair, and resumed the magazine which “nothing at all” had caused her to let fall upon her lap.

  Her husband again buried himself in his book, but not without a mild wonderment that three days out from New York his countess should suddenly have realized an admiration for the very buildings she had but recently characterized as horrid.

  Presently the count put down his book. “It is very tiresome, Olga,” he said. “I think that I shall hunt up some others who may be equally bored, and see if we cannot find enough for a game of cards.”

  “You are not very gallant, my husband,” replied the young woman, smiling, “but as I am equally bored I can forgive you. Go and play at your tiresome old cards, then, if you will.”

  When he had gone she let her eyes wander slyly to the figure of a tall young man stretched lazily in a chair not far distant.

  “MAGNIFIQUE!” she breathed once more.

  The Countess Olga de Coude was twenty. Her husband forty. She was a very faithful and loyal wife, but as she had had nothing whatever to do with the selection of a husband, it is not at all unlikely that she was not wildly and passionately in love with the one that fate and her titled Russian father had selected for her. However, simply because she was surprised into a tiny exclamation of approval at sight of a splendid young stranger it must not be inferred therefrom that her thoughts were in any way disloyal to her spouse. She merely admired, as she might have admired a particularly fine specimen of any species. Furthermore, the young man was unquestionably good to look at.

  As her furtive glance rested upon his profile he rose to leave the deck. The Countess de Coude beckoned to a passing steward. “Who is that gentleman?” she asked.

  “He is booked, madam, as Monsieur Tarzan, of Africa,” replied the steward.

  “Rather a large estate,” thought the girl, but now her interest was still further aroused.

  As Tarzan walked slowly toward the smoking-room he came unexpectedly upon two men whispering excitedly just without. He would have vouchsafed them not even a passing thought but for the strangely guilty glance that one of them shot in his direction. They reminded Tarzan of melodramatic villains he had seen at the theaters in Paris. Both were very dark, and this, in connection with the shrugs and stealthy glances that accompanied their palpable intriguing, lent still greater force to the similarity.

  Tarzan entered the smoking-room, and sought a chair a little apart from the others who were there. He felt in no mood for conversation, and as he sipped his absinth he let his mind run rath
er sorrowfully over the past few weeks of his life. Time and again he had wondered if he had acted wisely in renouncing his birthright to a man to whom he owed nothing. It is true that he liked Clayton, but — ah, but that was not the question. It was not for William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, that he had denied his birth. It was for the woman whom both he and Clayton had loved, and whom a strange freak of fate had given to Clayton instead of to him.

  That she loved him made the thing doubly difficult to bear, yet he knew that he could have done nothing less than he did do that night within the little railway station in the far Wisconsin woods. To him her happiness was the first consideration of all, and his brief experience with civilization and civilized men had taught him that without money and position life to most of them was unendurable.

  Jane Porter had been born to both, and had Tarzan taken them away from her future husband it would doubtless have plunged her into a life of misery and torture. That she would have spurned Clayton once he had been stripped of both his title and his estates never for once occurred to Tarzan, for he credited to others the same honest loyalty that was so inherent a quality in himself. Nor, in this instance, had he erred. Could any one thing have further bound Jane Porter to her promise to Clayton it would have been in the nature of some such misfortune as this overtaking him.

  Tarzan’s thoughts drifted from the past to the future. He tried to look forward with pleasurable sensations to his return to the jungle of his birth and boyhood; the cruel, fierce jungle in which he had spent twenty of his twenty-two years. But who or what of all the myriad jungle life would there be to welcome his return? Not one. Only Tantor, the elephant, could he call friend. The others would hunt him or flee from him as had been their way in the past.

  Not even the apes of his own tribe would extend the hand of fellowship to him.

  If civilization had done nothing else for Tarzan of the Apes, it had to some extent taught him to crave the society of his own kind, and to feel with genuine pleasure the congenial warmth of companionship. And in the same ratio had it made any other life distasteful to him. It was difficult to imagine a world without a friend — without a living thing who spoke the new tongues which Tarzan had learned to love so well. And so it was that Tarzan looked with little relish upon the future he had mapped out for himself.

  As he sat musing over his cigarette his eyes fell upon a mirror before him, and in it he saw reflected a table at which four men sat at cards. Presently one of them rose to leave, and then another approached, and Tarzan could see that he courteously offered to fill the vacant chair, that the game might not be interrupted. He was the smaller of the two whom Tarzan had seen whispering just outside the smoking-room.

  It was this fact that aroused a faint spark of interest in Tarzan, and so as he speculated upon the future he watched in the mirror the reflection of the players at the table behind him. Aside from the man who had but just entered the game Tarzan knew the name of but one of the other players. It was he who sat opposite the new player, Count Raoul de Coude, whom an over-attentive steward had pointed out as one of the celebrities of the passage, describing him as a man high in the official family of the French minister of war.

  Suddenly Tarzan’s attention was riveted upon the picture in the glass. The other swarthy plotter had entered, and was standing behind the count’s chair. Tarzan saw him turn and glance furtively about the room, but his eyes did not rest for a sufficient time upon the mirror to note the reflection of Tarzan’s watchful eyes. Stealthily the man withdrew something from his pocket. Tarzan could not discern what the object was, for the man’s hand covered it.

  Slowly the hand approached the count, and then, very deftly, the thing that was in it was transferred to the count’s pocket. The man remained standing where he could watch the Frenchman’s cards. Tarzan was puzzled, but he was all attention now, nor did he permit another detail of the incident to escape him.

  The play went on for some ten minutes after this, until the count won a considerable wager from him who had last joined the game, and then Tarzan saw the fellow back of the count’s chair nod his head to his confederate. Instantly the player arose and pointed a finger at the count.

  “Had I known that monsieur was a professional card sharp I had not been so ready to be drawn into the game,” he said.

  Instantly the count and the two other players were upon their feet.

  De Coude’s face went white.

  “What do you mean, sir?” he cried. “Do you know to whom you speak?”

  “I know that I speak, for the last time, to one who cheats at cards,” replied the fellow.

  The count leaned across the table, and struck the man full in the mouth with his open palm, and then the others closed in between them.

  “There is some mistake, sir,” cried one of the other players. “Why, this is Count de Coude, of France.” “If I am mistaken,” said the accuser, “I shall gladly apologize; but before I do so first let monsieur le count explain the extra cards which I saw him drop into his side pocket.”

  And then the man whom Tarzan had seen drop them there turned to sneak from the room, but to his annoyance he found the exit barred by a tall, gray-eyed stranger.

  “Pardon,” said the man brusquely, attempting to pass to one side.

  “Wait,” said Tarzan.

  “But why, monsieur?” exclaimed the other petulantly. “Permit me to pass, monsieur.”

  “Wait,” said Tarzan. “I think that there is a matter in here that you may doubtless be able to explain.”

  The fellow had lost his temper by this time, and with a low oath seized Tarzan to push him to one side. The ape-man but smiled as he twisted the big fellow about and, grasping him by the collar of his coat, escorted him back to the table, struggling, cursing, and striking in futile remonstrance. It was Nikolas Rokoff’s first experience with the muscles that had brought their savage owner victorious through encounters with Numa, the lion, and Terkoz, the great bull ape.

  The man who had accused De Coude, and the two others who had been playing, stood looking expectantly at the count. Several other passengers had drawn toward the scene of the altercation, and all awaited the denouement.

  “The fellow is crazy,” said the count. “Gentlemen, I implore that one of you search me.”

  “The accusation is ridiculous.” This from one of the players.

  “You have but to slip your hand in the count’s coat pocket and you will see that the accusation is quite serious,” insisted the accuser. And then, as the others still hesitated to do so: “Come, I shall do it myself if no other will,” and he stepped forward toward the count.

  “No, monsieur,” said De Coude. “I will submit to a search only at the hands of a gentleman.”

  “It is unnecessary to search the count. The cards are in his pocket. I myself saw them placed there.”

  All turned in surprise toward this new speaker, to behold a very well-built young man urging a resisting captive toward them by the scruff of his neck.

  “It is a conspiracy,” cried De Coude angrily. “There are no cards in my coat,” and with that he ran his hand into his pocket. As he did so tense silence reigned in the little group. The count went dead white, and then very slowly he withdrew his hand, and in it were three cards.

  He looked at them in mute and horrified surprise, and slowly the red of mortification suffused his face. Expressions of pity and contempt tinged the features of those who looked on at the death of a man’s honor.

  “It is a conspiracy, monsieur.” It was the gray-eyed stranger who spoke. “Gentlemen,” he continued, “monsieur le count did not know that those cards were in his pocket. They were placed there without his knowledge as he sat at play. From where I sat in that chair yonder I saw the reflection of it all in the mirror before me. This person whom I just intercepted in an effort to escape placed the cards in the count’s pocket.”

  De Coude had glanced from Tarzan to the man in his grasp.

  “MON DIEU, Nikolas!” he cri
ed. “You?”

  Then he turned to his accuser, and eyed him intently for a moment.

  “And you, monsieur, I did not recognize you without your beard. It quite disguises you, Paulvitch. I see it all now. It is quite clear, gentlemen.”

  “What shall we do with them, monsieur?” asked Tarzan. “Turn them over to the captain?”

  “No, my friend,” said the count hastily. “It is a personal matter, and I beg that you will let it drop. It is sufficient that I have been exonerated from the charge. The less we have to do with such fellows, the better. But, monsieur, how can I thank you for the great kindness you have done me? Permit me to offer you my card, and should the time come when I may serve you, remember that I am yours to command.”

  Tarzan had released Rokoff, who, with his confederate, Paulvitch, had hastened from the smoking-room. Just as he was leaving, Rokoff turned to Tarzan. “Monsieur will have ample opportunity to regret his interference in the affairs of others.”

  Tarzan smiled, and then, bowing to the count, handed him his own card.

  The count read:

  M. JEAN C. TARZAN

  “Monsieur Tarzan,” he said, “may indeed wish that he had never befriended me, for I can assure him that he has won the enmity of two of the most unmitigated scoundrels in all Europe. Avoid them, monsieur, by all means.”

  “I have had more awe-inspiring enemies, my dear count,” replied Tarzan with a quiet smile, “yet I am still alive and unworried. I think that neither of these two will ever find the means to harm me.”

  “Let us hope not, monsieur,” said De Coude; “but yet it will do no harm to be on the alert, and to know that you have made at least one enemy today who never forgets and never forgives, and in whose malignant brain there are always hatching new atrocities to perpetrate upon those who have thwarted or offended him. To say that Nikolas Rokoff is a devil would be to place a wanton affront upon his satanic majesty.”